


A Selcouth Winter

by CuriousNymph



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A ship name for Luna and Theo that I just made up, Acceptance, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, And Theo and Luna, Because they're adorable, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Canon ships not guaranteed, First Love, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Gen, Go Tumblr - make it a thing, LoveNott, POV Third Person, Self-Acceptance, Slow Burn, Strange yet Marvelous, Teen Angst, Teen Confusion, Winter, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:25:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9372221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuriousNymph/pseuds/CuriousNymph
Summary: Draco Malfoy has always been adamant about two things in life: he will never be his father, and he will always be utterly confused by Hermione Granger. Yet as Winter comes around in his 6th year at Hogwarts, Malfoy begins to realise that she isn't, and never has been, the person he thought she was; and while his best friend, Theo, finds it desperately hard not to confess to Luna Lovegood on the spot, Harry Potter is also finding a certain redhead way more attractive than he'd ever intended...





	1. Glance on a Frosty Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Selcouth means strange, unusual and rare, yet marvellous. That's highly important for the title, folks.

The Monday of the first days of winter proved to be some of the coldest Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had ever experienced. In almost an instant, the snow and frost had settled on the ground like a white blanket, the crisp feeling in the air fresher than any summer breeze. Cool, sharp and biting like pins pricked in your skin, the cold of a Scottish winter was more than testament to the true beauty of the untamed wildness that it offered. Lands like these were truly magical on their own.

Already Hogwarts looked like it had been steeped in snow for weeks – all this in the course of a night or two. Everything was glacial now: white and grey, the palest of skies above their heads, the turrets stark against the unblemished sweep. No clouds, no rain, no wind. It was calm. As if waiting for something unmentioned.

Hermione Granger stepped out into the courtyard, woolly scarf looped around her neck in about three bands, her neck now warm under the gold and red stripes. Her frizzy, bushy and altogether wild hair was particularly bold this morning, starkly bright and almost shining in the pale sunlight of the early morning, golden and brown like coffee swirls and toffee, her brown eyes sparking with a beauty unseen by many. A beauty that was in awe of nature’s power, and she loved it for it. She gazed up at the sky, loving how the pale blue and piercing sunlight somehow reminded her of an early summer morning too. How funny that seasons remembered each other.

“Hermione! Wait up!”

She turned around to see the obscured face of Harry Potter running towards her, coming into clarity. No matter the case or situation, his black hair was the unruly mess it always was, sticking up in such a way that he looked like he tumbled out of bed only a minute ago. Coming up to her, he smiled at her in a lopsided way that made her laugh.

“And how long have you been up, Harry?”

He scratched his head sheepishly.

“About… 10 minutes?” He grinned, making her throw back her head in laughter.

“You’re a disaster, Harry,” she said, cheeks blooming pink with the cold as she dipped her chin into the enclosure of her scarf.

“I know,” he muttered, sidling up beside her in a casual manner.

Together, they began walking across the courtyard, the large oak tree in the corner sitting proud as it grew up into the sky, branches bare but holding firm in the bitter chill. It made Hermione smile a little to herself – she liked how easily nature showed strength in the face of such trials, time and again. One sweep of cold and humans would dash for the heat in a flurry of panicked hysteria, lest they get an illness to last them weeks into the future.

Trees, she thought. They’re very solitary beings – they stand tall, proud; unable to move. And yet…

_They’re really rather beautiful in that solitary way._

Harry snapped her out of her thoughts with a curt comment.

“So… is something going on between you and Ron, then?”

Hermione blinked seconds before the comment registered. She whipped her head round to her best friend, hair spinning around her head like a coffee swirled halo. Her friend’s bright green eyes blinked back at her through his round spectacles, the image of innocence and genuity.

Harry Potter was a loveable, unobservant dork, and his comment startled her.

“What?”

Harry seemed startled himself as he restrained the urge to throw up his hands in advance surrender.

“Well, I just – you know… you seem kind of tense around him lately,”

“I do? Wherever did you get this idea, Harry?”

He continued to blink back at her obliviously.

“You – you seem to-“

“What?” Hermione could almost feel a speck of irritancy springing up in her throat as she prepared to spew back words of vicious denial at the claim. Yet she stopped and thought. Did he have a point there? Was Harry actually being observant for a change?

Hermione quirked an eyebrow as a curiously silent answer whilst she muddled through her thoughts. Harry continued.

“Because – you know, if you’re worried about it, or – concerned, or even, confused – by it-“

“Harry, I’m not confused by anything. And isn’t he currently snogging Lavender Brown?”

Harry smiled nervously.

“Not curious to know about the details, actually.”

Hermione grunted unceremoniously in reply. She wasn’t particularly curious herself, now that she thought about it in any great detail. Ron keeping his face attached to a girl’s who wasn’t her really should have bothered her a bit more than it currently did – sure, he was her other best friend, one she loved dearly for all the proper, obvious reasons…

But as a… _boyfriend_? “Ron Weasley” and “boyfriend” somehow didn’t match up in her mind quite as she thought it should have at this point. He didn’t seem that way to her anymore. Not that he’d changed all that much, but rather that the age of him had dictated more than a few things to her. Like how he still seemed uncannily immature for a 16 year old boy, or that by most lengths, he still found it blood-boilingly difficult to hold back from throwing a snide comment in Malfoy’s direction, no matter if he had irritated him or not.

All things considered, Ron was very like her: warm and honest and genuine; caring and just; an aesthetic of knitted jumpers, freckles and early morning coffees.

But he didn’t make her heart jump. He didn’t make her reassess every conversation she ever had with him.

Assuming that’s how these things were supposed to feel. Hermione wasn’t entirely sure. She was far more adept at her academic studies that required little emotional attachment. She liked that detachment – it was straightforward, simple and permanent once you locked it in your head. Spells, potions, magical creatures: logs upon logs of blunt knowledge in her head, and all she had to do was bring it up in a flash, and there it would be: the correct answer. As always.

Yet Hermione had always felt, in herself, that some part of her was unfulfilled in a way that books and top marks couldn’t give her. The adventures with Ron and Harry; the ambient, dreary days spent in class as she reviewed rather than learned a new spell, and the changing of seasons as she laid out her days in Hogwarts – they all completed her in ways that one couldn’t complete all of her. Each one had awakened and satisfied a part of her soul, and she was forever grateful for it.

And despite her best efforts to ignore the idea of first love – some fancifully stupid notion considering the state of the Wizarding world outside of Hogwarts’ walls – she still found herself yearning for it. Science of her own world taught her it was natural and normal – a part of human existence to look for a way to pass on your genes.

Her heart told her she couldn’t boil it down to something so drastically basic and objective.

She turned her attention to the rest of the courtyard, zoning out from Harry as he replied to whatever absent minded question she’d posed, and barely even remembering posing.

The snow was still settling even now, small, indistinct flurries cascading down in seconds every few minutes, dusting her hair in white dots that made her look almost angelic, despite her electric-shock hair.

And it was then that she spotted a small, indistinct figure on the corner of her vision too.

It took Hermione one or two seconds to figure out exactly who it was, but when she did, she was hardly surprised. Draco Malfoy had the hair of an angel, pale blonde and almost fading into the background as he stalked his way across the courtyard on her left side, a good few metres away from her. His beanie hat was pulled rather snugly over his head, but even so, the white blonde hair stood out. It was clear that he wanted to be alone – even from this far away, Hermione could tell the Slytherin was out here for privacy and some half-hearted notion of being alone with nature. She could make him out, even against the pale sky and snow steeped grounds; the bare branches of the oak tree and cool breeze that swiftly, carefully flew past her flushed cheeks with every breath.

She studied him, Harry’s voice having faded into the background as she made the apt observation that Draco Malfoy and winter suited each other to a degree she had never considered before.

He reminded her of a Nordic forest – elegant, lithe and mystical; mysterious in curious ways and enrapturing no matter your view on nature.

Hermione blinked and scowled in unison.

Had she really had those thoughts?

…

 _About Draco Malfoy_?!

Her scowl deepened, growing more and more uneasy with herself, by how quickly she’d romanticized the boy who had _bullied_ her - for _years_.

A Nordic forest? What fantasy had she pulled that from?

Hermione silently thanked the heavens her common sense was as sharp as it always had been.

Harry’s voice snapped her back to the present.

“Is that Malfoy?” The inward groan Hermione released did not surprise her – Harry had, from day one of this year, been furiously insisting that Malfoy was now one of the many cronies in Voldemort’s legion of Death Eaters – a theory so ridiculous not even Ron could concoct it. Draco may have been born into an archaic family with values as old as the walls they lived in, but he wasn’t his father; he wasn’t that vile wretch of a man, Lucius Malfoy.

Hermione’s scowl faded into an expression of indifference as she turned to her friend, a look of slight disdain on her face.

“Harry, honestly –“

“No, what’s he up to?”

“What he pleases, I would assume,”

Harry’s bright green eyes narrowed, dark brow furrowing his usually cheerful expression.

“That’s what worries me.”

Hermione’s sigh spiralled into the air as a cloud of cool breath.

“Harry, when are you going to get it into your head?! Draco is not a Death Eater, and is unlikely to ever be one,”

Harry whipped his head round to look at her, scowl deepening further.

“Are you defending him?”

Hermione blinked, taking a fraction of a second to gain her composure.

“Of course not – I’m just saving you from a great deal of humiliation if you continue saying ridiculous things like that,”

Harry sniffed in response, shoving his hands into his robes’ pockets as he hoisted his satchel up on his shoulder again. They stood in silence for several seconds, admiring the snowdrift as it tumbled from the sky in idle flakes.

“It’s rather pretty, isn’t it?” Hermione mused, a smile slipping onto her lips. Harry hummed in agreement.

She glanced at the ground momentarily before she risked another look. Tilting her head to the left, she spied him out of the corner of her eye, through the tendrils of her hair. He was knelt on the cold, hard ground, now scratching a cat under its chin with a vacant expression. His dark, pine green beanie hat had shifted back on his head, revealing more tufts of silvery hair poking out at the front, silver and forest green scarf eliciting that Nordic image of him again. His black robes had pooled around his feet as he stroked the cat’s fur, the small tabby leaning in to his touch. A glimmer of a smile passed across his lips, but it was gone in an instant.

It was then that he looked round at the both of them, and Hermione felt Harry visibly tense beside her, adopting a grimace.

“Oh great, now look whose coming.”

Malfoy was indeed sauntering towards them, the tabby streaking off behind the tree. Hermione bit her lip nervously as she watched him: his lip twisted up in a snarl, cold grey eyes stormy like a turbulent sky, and all manner of dangerous auras floating around him.

Potter and Malfoy.

At it again.

Coming to stand in front of them, Malfoy had pre-emptively adopted his signature sneer in such a way that it irritated Hermione almost immediately, despite the fact that it technically wasn’t aimed at her.

“Potter,” he drawled, glaring at him as he turned up his nose. Harry glared back in unison, green eyes fiery. Malfoy paralleled the Boy Who Lived in all ways possible: cool where Harry was fiery; pale where Harry was dark; distrusted where Harry was praised. They were really just opposite sides of the same coin – believing themselves wholly incompatible when there was probably a lot of potential for friendship. She remembered the first day clearly – how Malfoy, snotty, slick haired prat that he had been, had stepped up to Harry and offered his hand in friendship.

Harry had refused. And thus had begun the tiresome rivalry between the two.

Up close, Hermione had only really seen Malfoy once: back in second year, the first time he'd uttered the word ‘Mudblood’ to her, a sickeningly satisfied smirk on his lips, as if he’d won the game before it had started.

It had stung, that.

Such a filthy word and he’d used it to describe _her_.

She had never forgiven him for it, and doubtless ever would.

But only a blind person would fail to see that Draco Malfoy was no longer that said snot nosed, slick haired brat of a first year.

He stood before her as a slender, lithe and tall young man, chiselled features and downy hair sticking out from under his hat. His long lashes fanned on his cheeks as he blinked in a casually lazy fashion, unperturbed by Harry’s rising anger. His cheeks had flushed a little in the cold, too, and at some point during her silent and inconspicuous study of him, she'd decided he was rather cute. Pretty in a boyish way.

Hermione blinked again, clasping her tome of a book to her chest a little more tightly. The hell if she needed fanciful thoughts about Draco Malfoy.

“Out for a morning stroll, Potter? Or possibly trying to search in desperate hopes of brain cells?”

Hermione let out an audible sigh – and one that made Malfoy swivel his head towards her in surprise.

“Granger,” if it were possible, his sneer became more prominent, but Hermione was sure for an instant that she saw a flash of recognition in his eyes – a look that lingered on the notion of…

Well, a happiness to see her.

That truly _was_ absurd, but that didn’t stop her from being curious about it.

“If it was any of your business, Malfoy, I’d guarantee you’d be the first to know about it. With my wand in your face,”

“Oooh, touchy, Potter. Don’t want to burst the remaining ones in a temper, do we?”

“I don’t give a damn what you think, Malfoy!”

“Eloquence never was your strong suit, Potter. Better keep your talents to the places they work best – where I can’t see them,”

Harry continued to scowl at him, black hair wild like his temper in the current moment. Malfoy cast a cursory glance back at Hermione.

“And what about you, Granger? Hunting for new friends?”

She didn't dare even rise to the bait. Or that's at least what she'd wanted to do, but she was too stubborn not to.

“If that were the case, Malfoy, you’d be doing so as well, no doubt. You might actually find people who give a damn about you,”

He flinched at the words, but his composure was regained almost immediately. He sidled up to her, menacingly glaring into her eyes. He was a head taller, and it was both parts terrifying and thrilling.

“There _are_ people who care about me, Granger. The difference is, they’re people actually worth giving a damn about in return,”

Hermione swallowed herself, as he stepped back, smirking again. And that was the last straw.

Hermione Granger hating losing, and no matter how pretty his stupid face was, she immediately thought another slap was way overdue to that acidic smile. She hurtled towards him and swung her palm up to his face, slapping it across his cheek with a force she’d forgotten she’d had. He staggered back a bit – something that made her smirk in spite of herself – and Malfoy stared at her like he had, indeed, been slapped across the face.

He’d seen it coming. The flash of fury in her eyes, the unceremonious shifting of her book to her left hand and the rapid, elegant sweep she’d made upward towards his face, brutally whacking him with her palm so hard that his cheek stung from the impact.

He clasped it in one hand, staring at her. She was positively blazing, her wild golden hair flying out around her in unholy curls, fierce brown eyes daring him to retaliate. He already could see her slipping out her wand from inside her robes, the ivy wrapped instrument delicate and deadly in equal measure.

Granger and a wand was the beast you dare not tame and dare not fight.

Malfoy opted for his iconic sneer at a safe distance, rubbing his cheek with the back of his hand.

“Nicely done, Granger.” He didn’t continue. Even he knew a continuation of their throat ripping comments would end in loss of limb, predictably on his side.

“Those undeserving don’t receive, Malfoy. You don’t fall into that category,”

Granger’s last look towards him was menacing, fingers still twitching around her wand, as she grabbed Harry’s forearm.

“Come on, Harry,” she snapped, dragging him away with an ease that didn’t surprise him, even though Potter was a head taller than the small witch as well.

As she stormed off, Malfoy watched her go: how her hair blew gently in the breeze; how her colours – warm, honey gold and soft, rich brown – made the cool backdrop burst with ferocity and heat, and that he liked the way her hips swayed as she walked.

He didn’t much care that he was having thoughts like that about her.

He’d been having them for years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking maybe 3 chapters for this one? Don't quote me on that. We'll have to see. 
> 
> Each chapter takes place the next week after the previous chapter. So, Monday is Week 1; Tuesday is Week 2 etc. 
> 
> Reviews and kudos are, as always, much appreciated!


	2. The Blushes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems I grossly underestimated how long this fic would need to be; there isn't a hope in hell that I could get down what I want to write in 3 chapters! For this reason, completely disregard the time continuity I mentioned in the notes in the previous chapter. I'm abandoning that completely, and instead going for a linear timeline. So, the story does start on a Monday, but then goes to random days throughout December that help build up the relationships. They'll be confirmed in the chapters themselves. Also, non uniform on weekends in Hogwarts, but I'm sure you all knew that. 
> 
> Anyways - I really loved writing this chapter, so enjoy!

 

“Draco Malfoy, if for one moment you think I’m going to let you away with a comment like that, sit down and get comfortable. There is _no way_ in _hell_ ,”

Draco shot Theo what he knew was a more condescending look than his friend could ever hope to achieve – superiority looks were a Malfoy exclusive.

Theo, lanky like a rake and dark, sandy hair close cut but scruffy anyway, he walked beside him in the freezing cold, hands shoved into his pockets. Theo was many things – loyal, blunt, dripping with sarcasm – but he was also unwaveringly honest with himself and others. A trait few Slytherin’s outwardly showed.

“I see no problem with the comment,”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Theo grumbled, eyeing up his friend with a quirked eyebrow that demanded truth. Draco didn’t comply.

The snow crunched under their feet, a new flurry idly making its way down, the courtyard ever growing into a field of white, bare branched trees desperately stretching up into the sky, still holding its cool, grey hue.

Hogwarts itself looked mystical in winter – probably because snow made things that way.

Draco liked it – he felt like it understood him. That things of mystery didn’t have to be questioned.

He felt like a mystery sometimes – even to himself.

“So you’re telling me that Hermione Granger slapping you across the face was a dream come true?” Theo’s deadpan voice made Draco cringe.

“Not exactly,”

“Then what? You got chills just thinking about it?”

Draco whirled on his friend, watching him keep a straight face, as he felt the oncoming heat of an emerging blush. It was hard sometimes – crushing on a Gryffindor was one thing. Crushing on the girl the whole school thought you detested was an entirely different matter, and one he didn’t really want to think about too much, when given the chance.

“Shut up, Theo,”

His fellow Slytherin smirked.

“Touchy. Thought you liked her?”

“Shout it from the rooftops, Theo, I’m sure everyone will be thrilled to hear you.”

They kept walking, Theo bursting out into a fit of laughter.

“Can’t help it, mate. You and Hermione Granger? I’d sooner bet on McGonagall and Slughorn,”

“Ha ha, very funny. Shove your humour elsewhere, Nott, I don’t want it.”

Theo scratched his head in mild consideration. He was an intriguing character – a person Draco observed in awe every day. He didn’t conform despite his status; he didn’t judge, despite his house; he upheld his values, his beliefs, his customs. But he wasn’t like him. He was just Theo. A take it or leave it guy who was who he always was.

Just him. No add ons.

That’s why Draco liked him so much. He could trust him to be genuine when so many other people insisted on being deceitful, for the sake of favour in the eyes of a Lord that Draco, if honest with himself, hated the sight of in his house. He’d sullied it for him. Made it a prison instead of home.

“Awww, is the little boy getting all embarrassed?” Theo laughed in spite of himself, trying to cover his mouth with the back of his hand to smother the smirk that had bloomed on his face.

“I could say the same to you, Nott – doesn’t take a lot to notice your infatuations,”

Theo’s smile slid off his face. Draco’s smirked in retaliation.

“What did you say?!” Theo stormed after him as Draco sidled on up, feeling just a little bit better that the conversation had veered off his half bad/ half thrilling encounter with Granger this morning.

“You know full well what I said, Nott,”

Theo had come right up beside him, furiously questioning him.

“What do you know? Tell me!”

Draco just laughed. “As if I’m going to tell you what I know. Honestly, it’s ridiculous the things you come off with sometimes.”

“Piss off, Malfoy.”

“If I do that you’ll never know.”

Theo scrunched up his brow, hair dusted with snow a little as they wandered into the open courtyard. Draco’s eyes wandered to the tree again, curious for a moment as to why something so simple had made him go crazy. So Hermione had slapped him over an hour ago – most would dismiss it as just what the headstrong, bold Gryffindor’s would do if faced with a Slytherin. Malfoy was curiously holding the end of the stick that said ‘She looked infuriated and thrilled by it as well’.

He didn’t think it likely – possibly the heat of an argument could do that – but something about Granger’s eyes had told him that she was as fueled by anger as by that unnameable emotion that had taken over him too.

Something akin to raging intrigue.

That kind of anger that made you simultaneously want to kiss someone to shut them up.

Draco hadn’t really done that before, and had never really experienced it with anyone else.

Other than Granger, of course.

He drove the thought out of his head – Merlin, if he’d had the choice all those years back, he’d have erased her from his memory from the start. Every day, she invaded his head with her coffee curls, quirked eyebrow and pouted lips as she both concentrated on and questioned everything around her, bright brown eyes wide and curious. She frustrated him with her intelligence, her righteous demeanour, her proud stance. Yet he still liked her for all those traits – she was the kind of girl that fascinated and infuriated him.

He liked people with spirit.

People who fought and stood up and shouted when they were passionate.

Hermione Granger was all of those things.

Theo was still talking.

“Do you know who it is? Do you? Because if you do I’ll die of embarrassment-“

“THEO.” Draco nearly yelled into his ear, abruptly making the chattering idiot clamp his mouth shut.

“I don’t know who it is, but I could tell for sure if she was under your nose.”

The visible sigh of relief from his friend was almost funny enough to laugh at, but Draco could tell it had been a genuine concern for the guy. His pale, green eyes had been wide in seriousness, lips a thin line as he’d waited for answers to his threads of questions. It had surprised him how serious he’d been about it – normally, Theo held the persona of the devilish trickster of their strange quartet of him, Theo, Blaise and Pansy (despite Pansy being more irritating than good company). But at that moment, he’d looked like a young man afraid of how he truly felt, and that any mention would tumble not just his resolve, but his faith in love.

That worried him a little. That Theo might actually be that easy to break.

They wandered over to the lone bench that sat beside the large oak tree, the snow flurry ceased briefly. The flakes were caught in Theo’s hair rather evidently, but had been lost in Draco’s, the pale blonde looking like snow itself.

Slumping down into the seat, the both of them shrugged off their shoulder bags, allowing them to thud to the ground, exceptionally dry considering the cold.

“Heat charm?” Theo asked, but Draco shook his head.

“Keep it to yourself. I like the cold. I feel like I can breathe for a change.”

“How poetic. I’d like to stay warm – keeps it practical.”

Draco turned up his nose in mock disgust, looking up to the sky instead. There were still few clouds to be seen, all blurring into each other as the same colour swept across the expanse of it all. The sun was very much there, but was low and cool; a winter sun that displayed all the characteristics of a moon.

“Your eyes are the same colour as it, you know.”

Draco and Theo both yelped in unison as their heads snapped up to find a serene young girl standing in front of them, looking oddly right against the cold backdrop. Wand stuck in a pile of silvery, white blonde hair, wisps of it falling around her face, Luna Lovegood was a rather peculiar sight that made you smile in spite of yourself. Her small, butterfly lips were smiling gently, orange segment earrings dangling near her shoulders, cardigan fully buttoned and skirt modestly above her knee by an inch. Her Spectrespecs were covering her eyes, but even with them on, Draco could tell her eyes held some bedazzled, permanently, pleasantly surprised expression.

He looked to Theo for a second, and saw that his friend’s mouth was closed firmly shut, eyes staring at her.

Oh.

He turned to Luna again, waiting for an explanation. She lowered her spectacles, staring benignly over them.

“Hello, Draco. You blend quite well into the snow. I didn’t see you. Although –“ she raised the spectacles to her eyes again – “You do have a few wrackspurts all around your head. I suppose you must be having very confused thoughts.”

She said it in such a way where he couldn’t deny it.

She sat the spectacles on top of her head, letting it push back the hair hanging about her face. She now looked radiantly bare, cheeks made a pale peach – a lighter shade than her earrings - by the cold air. She didn’t appear to be wearing any winter clothing – just her uniform and robes – but a flash of blue beads caught his eye as her hand fell back down to her side, glasses now suitably adjusted in her hair.

Draco cleared his throat, still rather unsure as to what was going on.

“Is there something you need, Lovegood?”

She didn’t look at him as she replied, instead directing her attention to a spot near the tree, tilting her head as she did so.

“Oh, no, I was just looking for Nargles. Nothing to be alarmed about, you know. They’re very benign creatures, Nargles. Rather shy, but they’re very gentle. You’d like them, Theo. They suit your aura.”

Theo seemed to be struggling to decide whether he should look understandably surprised, or just nod despite the confusion. He settled on neither, and instead just continued to stare at her like a new species of bird he’d just found.

“Lovegood, what are you doing here?”

Luna ignored the question.

“You seem very gentle, Theo. Kind of like a badger, except you don’t threaten people so much. Did you know you have snow in your hair?”

Theo blinked twice.

“I – I do?” he managed to stutter out.

“Mmmm. Oh, however I would like to ask Theo if he’ll be there in Charms today.” She turned to Theo again, before Draco even realised that she’d answered his question a minute after he’d asked it. He frowned, scrunching up his brow. This girl was beyond strange.

“There’s a charm for keeping snow from melting, you know. I haven’t perfected it, so it kind of disappears over time, just more slowly. You look nice with it.” She accompanied this odd but otherwise pleasant statement with a gentle smile; one that belied no sense of ingenuity whatsoever. If one thing was for sure about Luna Lovegood, it was that she was unwaveringly blunt with herself and others.

Draco admired her for that. He was certainly honest, but not with himself. Never with others. He hid and fled and cowered behind shelves; he had done from the moment he’d been a small boy.

He looked to Theo again, and his bedazzled expression had softened to one of a gentle, easy smile – an expression not often found on his housemates. Slytherins were cunning and ambitious – soft smiles did not win them any favours in their darkened common room. Draco thought it looked strangely good on him – his hair looked lighter in the cool glow of the sun, his eyes a pale, almost blue hue. A soft smile like that fitted him in a way it would never have looked right on Draco’s lips. He was all hard lines and harsh corners; Theo’s face was altogether softer. Not babyish, but not as pale and worn out as Malfoy’s seemed.

Luna looked rather dazed now, staring at the sky as the snow tumbled down, one or two flakes landing on her peachy, pale orange cheeks. She looked warm and summery despite her pale hair.

“It was lovely talking to you, Theo.” She turned on her heel, beginning to skip away, but not before looking over her shoulder and saying,

“Oh, by the way, Draco. Your lips look rather strange, you know. I wonder, have you been kissed at all. You should look to see if you can find someone to do so. They look rather bare.”

And then Luna was gone, pale hair wafting lightly in the wind, as stray wisps from her bun bounced and her earrings swung from her lobes.

Theo stared after her, much to Draco’s amusement. He was going to feel fairly put out by that statement for a while to come. Since when was it Lovegood’s business who he had and hadn’t kissed? The annoying thing was that he hadn’t; she’d been utterly right. And he disliked that a lot.

Turning to Theo, he smirked sadistically.

“Well, I know who it is now.”

Theo looked round at him, face not the slightest bit amused.

“You shut up,"

΅                    ΅                    ΅

Harry was really beginning to think that given the circumstances, the world really never got fed up of laughing at him. He had kind of figured out from day one that his life in this place was never going to be peaceful – ferocious creatures, deadly assassins, and all manner of duels that he didn’t regret one minute of, but sometimes wished hadn’t been quite as dangerous either. His previous 5 years at Hogwarts were a cauldron of every stupid and heroic thing he’d ever done, and his 6th year at the magic school didn’t promise to be any better.

Yet all of that, combined, still couldn’t top how terrifying it was to walk into the library and realize, with a jolt of his stomach, that Ginny Weasley was sitting there as well, head buried over a piece of parchment as she scribbled furiously, swathes of fiery, sunset red hair sweeping down to obscure her face.

He swallowed once, ruffling his already uncontrollable head of black hair, adjusting his circular glasses for good measure.

The one time he actually decided to do as Hermione told him and at least try to do some homework, also happened to be the one day he had to sit at the only free table with his best friend’s sister.

Yes, Harry Potter was besotted with Ginny Weasley, and it made him redder in the face than a tomato.

As he stood there, looking rather confused and startled, Ginny took that moment to look up and catch him in the eye, blinking twice before she grinned widely and jumped up out of her seat, jogging over to him.

“Harry! I didn’t think I’d see you in here!”

Harry felt his cheeks go wildly hot as she looked up at him, red hair silky as it fell past her shoulders and slight frame flattered by her dark blue jeans, loose white t-shirt and open black waistcoat. Her style was… _odd_ , to say the least, but then it was the 90’s. Anything went these days.

Saturday morning, and he was barely able to control his temperature.

Harry shifted his bag onto his shoulder again, grinning back down at her again, trying to cool down his rising joy at seeing her.

“I’m full of surprises, Gin,”

Ginny raised an eyebrow, smiling back up at him in a quirky manner.

“Don’t I know it, Potter. What are you here for?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair.

“Homework. Hermione insisted it would be good for me,”

“Like she did all the other times?”

Harry playfully shoved her as they made their way back to one of the tables, shelves both behind and in front of this particular one looking ready to topple, they were that full of books. The library had never been a place Harry felt he ought to go to – that was Hermione’s unofficial job in their trio – but as he sat down, shrugging his bag off, he took a moment to appreciate how nice it actually was. Lit in a soft, warm glow by the torches on the stone walls in the evenings, the millions of shelves towered above their heads as the chairs were tucked in underneath; large, glass gothic windows let sunlight pour into the room, cascading across the mahogany furnishings and bathing the dilapidated, old and worn books with a hazy glow. It was quiet, as was to be expected, but Harry noticed further in that curiously dodgy piles of books were stacked in corners, candles dancing in the air at random locations, despite their extinguished nature. He assumed pupils used them at night when it got colder and dimmer.

Ginny shoved him again as she pulled her chair out, sliding back into it, prettily propping up her chin with one of her hands, another twirling her quill thoughtfully between her fingers. Harry avoided her eyes, instead dipping to pull out some parchment from his bag, and doing it at the slowest pace he thought he could manage to get away with.

“I have a question,” Ginny said thoughtfully, but even Harry could hear the teasing tone in her voice; the intonation of a Weasley ready to cause mischief. He’d heard it the twins’ voices more than enough times.

“Yeah?” he faked curiosity. He had no desire to know what scheme Ginny had up her sleeve. Knowing her, she’d become as devilish and unbearably feisty as any Weasley, and although he loved that about her, it also meant he was always slightly scared of her as well. To mess with Ginevra Weasley was to challenge hell itself.

“Well,” – Harry continued to keep his head bowed beneath the desk, searching for a quill that he already had in his hand – “I was wondering about Dean, you know? Cause I thought he was pretty nice. And I thought, hey, Harry knows him, why not ask him?”

Harry froze at the comment, realizing with a jolt of his stomach that the conversation was veering in the direction of ‘possible boyfriend material’. And the boy wasn’t him.

He was mostly mortified and slightly relieved. At least he’d save himself the embarrassment of eventually confessing to her… right?

For a moment Harry seriously considered leaping up out of his chair and saying to her right there and then that she’d been captivating him for weeks now. But he laughed to himself – him, brave? Not with girls.

Evil Lords planning to kill him and take over the Wizarding World? That was easy.

“Are you going to stay under there all day?” Harry jumped to look round and see Ginny looking under the table at him upside down, hair falling to the floor as she looked at him curiously, her abundance of freckles brushing her face in a warm glow.

Harry blushed harder, thankful at least that the darkness of the table obscured his cheeks.

He hurriedly jumped up again, whacking his head on the underside of the table as he did so.

Ginny burst into laughter, brushing her hair behind her ears as Harry rubbed at the crown of his head, frowning.

“You idiot, what did you do?” She asked. Harry looked up at her, watching the sunlight dancing across her face and lighting up her hair in fiery, orange streaks of light. That blush was irretrievably stuck to his face now, for sure.

She got out of her chair, coming to stand behind him as she slapped his hands away.

“Don’t rub it, you’ll make it worse,” she said sharply, for a minute sounding like her mother, the ferociously motherly Molly Weasley. Harry imagined that Ginny was sort of like a depiction of what Molly had been like when she’d been that age. Commanding and fiercely beautiful.

Harry sat still as she brushed his hair out of the way, slowly revealing the growing bump on his head.

“Hmmm, it looks swollen.” She looked down at him. “You’re so clumsy, Harry, honestly,” she said, carefully letting his hair fall back down, taking her seat in front of him again. She idly began to flip through one of her textbooks piled up beside her, brushing her ginger hair behind her ear again. She paused, looking up, a serious look in her eyes.

“Make sure you get that looked at by Madam Pomfrey,”

She turned back to her books, still twirling her brown feathered quill, spotted black in some areas.

“So…” Harry, previously having nearly contented himself with the silence, looked up again, ceasing the twirling of his own quill.

“Yeah?”

“What _do_ you think of Dean?”

Harry internally groaned. Yet again another case in which he could prove how utterly hopeless he was at this.

“Well, I…” Harry struggled for the words, instead focusing glumly at Ginny’s pile of books, studying the weathered, rust red spines and the aged, yellowed pages. It wasn’t nearly as nice a view, but he couldn’t bring himself to talk well about his friend if he looked her in the eyes. He’d end up spewing his previously imagined confession.

“Dean’s - great. He’s funny; football crazy but…smart?” He wasn’t really sure. Nor did he want to be. He’d rather be talking about the weather.

“Yeah?” The hopeful tone in Ginny’s voice made Harry’s heart sink lower; of course a guy like that would catch her attention – Ginny was smart and funny, and witty as well. Always sharp with the comebacks. Talented at magic and Quidditch. Constantly fighting for what she believed in and always making sure that her friends were safe and happy.

Harry felt utterly useless in terms of romantic appeal. Give him a Basilisk any day and Dumbledore would sing his praises till he was blue in the face. Ask Ginny Weasley out and it would be one disaster after another.

“Yeah. He’s nice.”

“Hmmmm." Ginny made no further comment. The two began to sit in contented silence, Ginny flipping through her books and scribbling down her notes in her small, neat handwriting, Harry scratching out a few himself, to his disbelief. The idea that he’d been able to concentrate even just a little was amazing, but he supposed not having Ron here was, to a degree, some help. Put them in the same room and the two best friends would talk till kingdom come.

He studied her. He felt her looking at him on occasions as well. They talked briefly between notes, laughing quietly between themselves. The sunlight continued to rise throughout the library, the sun slowly getting higher in the sky. Books floated idly by as students ambled in and out, whispering for fear that Madam Pince would shriek at them from behind some corner of the library.

It was a happy silence; a contented morning that Harry was glad he’d chosen to attend.

“Harry!” Ron’s voice called out to him from behind, making the dark haired boy turn around, a cheerful grin breaking out onto his face. Ron came to stop beside him, eyeing his work curiously.

“What are you doing, mate?”

“Work,” Harry said dubiously, aware how unusual the sight must have been for his ginger haired best friend. It then occurred to him that sitting with his sister might be sparking other, less well intentioned questions in his friend’s head. Harry rushed to change the subject.

“What are you doing here?”

Ron breathlessly shifted his bag up onto his sloping shoulder again, rolled up sleeves revealing his lanky arms covered in freckles, so much so that he looked almost tanned in the golden sunlight of the library.

“Looking for Hermione; figured the library was the most obvious place to check. Ginny?” Ron seemed to have only now become aware that his sister was sitting with them, and her head turned up to face him, a positively lethal scowl on her face.

“Yes, hi, Ron. Thanks for noticing I’m here,”

Ron’s hands came up in mock surrender.

“Sorry, Gin. Didn’t recognize you,”

Ginny raised an eyebrow but made no further comment. Ron turned back to Harry, a smile on his face.

“I kind of need to tell her something, but I’m not sure how to. So I was going to ask you,” Harry cast a cursory glance back at Ginny; she looked absorbed by her work, but he noticed the subtle way she tilted her head towards them and curled her hair behind the ear facing them, so as to hear the conversation coherently.

“Tell her…something?”

Ron nodded his head vigourously, making Harry blink in surprise. He considered cleaning his spectacles on his dark, navy blue jumper, but thought better of it. His eyesight was woeful, and he rather wanted to see clearly what Ron seemed so relieved about.

“Yeah. I’m kinda-”

“Harry!” For the second time, a clear, bell like voice chimed out from the other end of the library, as a head of coffee and honey gold curls came bouncing towards them, Hermione Granger dressed in a pair of light blue jeans and mauve blouse, a pale grey, waist length cardigan over it, cuffs pulled up to her elbows. As per usual, her ivy wrapped wand was in her back pocket and there were at least three books held against her chest.

“Thank goodness I found you! McGonagall’s looking for you.”

Harry blinked up at his other best friend, surprised by how easily the numbers had doubled in just over a minute. Whatever Ron had been about to say, he didn’t look so keen to say it now that Hermione was present.

Harry ruffled his black hair again, pushing his glasses up his nose, just for something to do. He could feel Ginny’s eyes boring into his back, and wasn’t entirely sure why she was doing it.

“McGonagall?”

“Yes, Harry, McGonagall. I don’t know why – she just told me to tell you. I think it would be an idea to go and find out what’s wrong.”

“Probably Quidditch practice or something,” he replied absently, not really listening. He’d caught a figure out of the corner of his eye, fairly sure he’d seen a head of white blonde hair, but was unsure if he was seeing the dotty Ravenclaw or vicious Slytherin.

However, he wasn’t long soon finding out, as Malfoy appeared from behind the shelves, carrying a scowl on his face like someone had insulted his father in the most unpleasant way they could manage. That could have happened, mind – not many liked his father to begin with, and many more disliked him after they had the misfortune to meet him in person.

Hermione and Ron were chatting awkwardly beside him, but the conversation soon waned once they both looked to see what Harry was staring at. Slowly getting to his feet, Harry made himself as intimidating as possible with what he had – a woolly navy jumper, unruly bed hair and off-kilter glasses which had slipped down his nose again. He righted them quickly.

“Potter,” Malfoy greeted him distastefully as always, white blonde hair practically shining in the midday sun filtering through the windows.

“Just my luck that I have to see your ugly face this morning,” he sneered in his general direction, but Harry didn’t miss the look he gave Ron, one that looked even more disgusted than it was towards him. Harry frowned – was there anyone this guy didn’t have a problem with?

“Shove off, Malfoy,” Harry glared back at him, but Malfoy just sniffed.

“I would, Potter, but I need to talk to Granger, so if you don’t mind, I’ll be taking her with me,”

“What do you want with Hermione?” Ron had now taken stance in front of her, who looked rather annoyed that he’d done so. She shoved to stand beside him.

“I wasn’t talking to you, Weaslebee. I can see you’re dressed as shoddily as always. Pity that pathetically poor families like yours can’t even manage to afford decent clothes. How awful it must be for you,”

Ginny had stood up at this point, glaring at Malfoy from her seat. Harry glanced round, and stared at her expression – she looked ready to punch the Slytherin. And if Harry was completely honest, he wouldn’t mind if she did.

Packing away her books furiously, she made a point of shoving past Malfoy with considerable force.

He glared at her back.

“Watch where you’re going, Weasley,” Ginny snapped her head round to look at him, brow furrowed in a dangerously angry fashion.

“As if I care what you think, you blonde ferret. Go creep back into your stinking hole and stay out of my way– you’re making this place stink and my nose hurts,” And with that, she stormed off down the hallway, red hair like a brilliant cloak of vengeance down her back, hips sashaying with a pride that looked well on her. Harry gazed after her – that girl’s mouth was a thing untamed.

Malfoy’s expression had soured at that comment, but he made none back. He glanced at Hermione.

“Come on, Granger.”

“I’m not an object at your beck and call, Malfoy. What do you want me for?” Her eyes had a cold, hard look in them, and she saw a flicker of doubt in his own, cool grey ones. No doubt he remembered the slap she’d administered to him last Monday, and no doubt he hadn’t enjoyed the experience.

He sighed heavily, rolling his eyes.

“Always so difficult, Granger. How people put up with you is a mystery. I need to talk to you – in private,” he glared at Ron and Harry, an indication that they were unwanted.

The both of them, however, looked entirely reluctant to concede.

“She’s not going anywhere, especially with you!” Ron fumed, shoving his hands into his pockets. Although a good head taller than Malfoy, with his fiery ginger hair and lanky frame, he didn’t hold the same presence as Malfoy seemed to. It was possibly that his abundance of freckles, worn burgundy jumper and jeans and scuffed sneakers didn’t impose the same sense of authority that Draco’s crisp black trousers, shirt and jacket did. He looked like a younger version of his father entirely – no idea about colour at all.

“I can speak for myself, Ronald,” Hermione herself looked suitably irritated, stepping in front of Ron, to his utter distress.

“Hermione, no –“

She turned on him, curls spinning around her shoulders, bouncing wildly.

“I can look after myself, honestly. I’ll see you both in the Great Hall for lunch, OK? Oh and Harry,”- She looked to her bespectacled friend – “Make sure to visit McGonagall, right?”

She walked ahead, gesturing for Malfoy to follow her. With a withering look towards the remaining members of the Golden Trio, he smirked victoriously and followed Hermione towards a quieter part of the library.

Furiously storming into a corner beside one of the large glass windows, she glanced both ways to check no one was around, and then turned on Malfoy with a harsh glare.

“What do you want, Draco? I have things to do,”

Draco sneered at her as he had done Harry.

“Calm down, Granger, I’m not here to insult you,”

“That makes a change, considering that’s what you usually do,” she raised her eyebrows, lips pursed in a thin line. Draco glared back, feeling ridiculous for picking up on how the sun was glinting in her hair, the pale grey and mauve complimenting her golden skin. She looked positively radiant – the fearsome princess of the house of the Lion. Proud and true and valiant.

He much preferred his elegant snake, but held back judgement for now.

“Just listen for a moment, would you? I’m here to apologize,”

The change of expression on Hermione’s face was extraordinary: from a hard, distrustful glare to a wide eyed, vacant expression that made her look incredibly young and innocent.

“What?” That singular word was all the encouragement he needed.

“For what happened on Monday – you slapped me, Granger, in case you’ve forgotten – and clearly that happened because I’d upset you. So I’m… I’m sorry,” he paused, scrunching up his nose in distaste. He didn’t like apologizing – it was like a confirmation of guilt rather than admittance to it. People apologized even when they hadn’t done anything.

That was something he hated with a vehement passion.

Hermione squinted, not entirely sure what he was getting at. Setting her books on the windowsill - which sat at knee height to accommodate the long, tall, deep-set window - she folded her arms, raising an eyebrow.

“You mean to say you don’t know what you’re apologizing _for_?” She looked irritated again. Draco winced internally.

“Quite frankly, yes –“

“Then that’s not an apology; that’s a convenience,”

Draco scowled at her.

“Always so picky, Granger -!”

“You’re not apologizing, Draco – you’re feigning apology! That means nothing!”

She looked fierce now – probably even a bit angrier than she had done moments ago.

“Means nothing? I hope you realise I’m not in the business of apologizing, Granger – feel lucky I even considered it with _you_!”

Hermione snorted in retort.

“As if that changes anything. I slapped you because you insulted my friends –“

“Ah yes, stinking Potter and pathetic Weasley – such wondrous people to hang out with, I’m sure –“

“Harry and Ron are wonderful friends! To insult them is to insult me!” She kept glaring at him, clearly dissatisfied with this turn of events. She leant down to grab her books.

“I’m leaving. This is a nonsense,”

In a moment of lunacy on his part, Draco grabbed her arm as she turned to leave.

“Granger, wait,” He cast his eyes downward, careful to avoid looking at her. He could already feel the blush coming on – an aftereffect of having looked at her in the sunlight for too long, he thought.

Hermione looked at him curiously.

“I’m sorry… for insulting your… friends. I know what they can mean to someone – I care about my own as much as… as much as you do about yours. I’m - I'm sorry,”

He let her arm drop, which she tucked in to hold her books again, still looking at him weirdly. The sunlight cast shadows on her face, but it still bathed her in an angelic- like glow that made her hair shine and cheeks glow with a pink hue.

She looked rather glorious, really.

For a moment, her lips parted slightly, a contemplative look in her eyes as she tried to form words. For once, she was lost for them.

With a sigh, and a reserved expression, one hand let go of her books and came up to rest on his cheek. She cupped it lightly, making his cheeks grow warmer in under 10 seconds.

He stared at her, confused and a little uncertain, desperately trying to maintain a steely expression and failing miserably.

“Thank you, Draco,” She said it simply, and with a resigned face, not looking particularly moved or emotional, but sincere nonetheless. She turned on her heel and marched away, curls bouncing as always, and for once in his life, Draco felt like he’d done something worth feeling proud of.

He cupped his own long-fingered palm over his cheek.

It was still warm from her touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the reviews I have received so far! It is truly staggering to find so many people have read this already, and not after a day of posting the first chapter! It inspires me to keep writing. From now on, as seen here, other stories will be incorporated into the next chapters, so you'll get a bit of each couple to tide you over as I continue on with the story.


	3. Unwanted Attention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies about the late update - I was very busy the past few weeks with different things going on, but here's the new chapter now - enjoy! Your reviews keep me going.

 

The Great Hall that Saturday evening was packed as usual, reverberating with the noise Harry, Ron and Hermione had come to expect nearly every dinner time. Now the 7th December, Harry was already finding it hard to believe how quickly Christmas was coming. He’d astutely noticed – on a rare occasion, as Harry was well aware he wasn’t the most observant of people, especially when he sat beside Hermione – that time had seemingly sped up as he’d grown up, and in some ways that terrified him. He hated that Hogwarts may no longer be his home after the next two years. Or even next year at all. Things had felt uneasy, even with the oncoming Christmas cheer and positive atmosphere, despite the looming danger of Voldemort’s rise to power. People were finely tuned to mentions of the Dark Wizard, as if their ears couldn’t help but pick up on the boundless whispers about the famed murderer and dictator of the previous War – a war their parents had fought and thankfully won.

Harry didn’t feel so sure that they would be so lucky this time.

Not unless he accepted the burden Dumbledore had hurled at him from afar, and pulled his socks up for the sake of the greater good.

He stared glumly at his steak pie, poking the contents with his fork idly. He didn’t feel like eating so much at the moment – too much was running through his head at a speed he couldn’t keep up with, and it was driving him mad.

The Great Hall had been transformed for the festivities, the grand tree sitting at the front of hall, sparkling in dustings of gold glitter, decorations precariously being levitated to its uppermost branches by the vertically challenged Professor Flitwick, an expression of furious concentration scrunching up his brow. Professor McGonagall was busily transfiguring the bare branches Hagrid was still carrying into the hall into holly, draping it decoratively around the fireplaces on both sides of the hall, with a care and finesse that was never seen to abandon the elderly witch.

Ron and Hermione sat across from them, Ron shovelling food into his mouth like there was no tomorrow, Hermione glancing between her book and McGonagall decorating the hall.

Harry continued to pick at his food.

Hermione sighed loudly.

“Harry, what’s wrong? You haven’t eaten at all since we sat down,”

Harry snorted in reply.

“Can you honestly blame me? It’s been hectic all day,”

He noticed the subtle glance his friends shared between themselves, eyebrows raised.

“It hasn’t been that bad, mate. At least you don’t have Lavender clinging to your arm all day,”

Hermione’s head whipped towards her lanky friend at the mention of his girlfriend, eyes alight with a mischief that was almost funny to see in them, usually seen to be so warm and welcoming.

“Why should that bother you? You’re going out with her, aren’t you?”

Ron shifted uncomfortably in his chair, picking up another sausage from his platter. He had refilled it twice now, much to Hermione’s grimaces and distasteful looks towards her friend.

“Well, you know… I want possession of my arm some of the day, you know?”

Hermione shrugged in response, turning her attention back to her book.

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been out with anyone before,”

“Maybe you should try it then,” Ron’s voice sounded just a little too eager at that suggestion, looking at Hermione in such a way that made Harry glance between the both of them.

Even to him, it was obvious that the two of them were a right pair – bickering and arguing like an old married couple already; he had finally persuaded himself to have one mouthful of pie, and had paused chewing to wait for Hermione’s response.

She did not look pleased by the suggestion.

She slapped the cover of her book down, slamming her hand on top of it, fixing Ron with a harsh glare.

“I have tried, Ronald, and it wasn’t right for me. Not yet, anyway,” she muttered, scooping up more of her tomato soup and making it plain that the conversation was closed.

Ron, however, did not get the hint.

“You mean you haven’t…gone out with anyone?”

“No, Ron, I mean I did, and I decided against the idea,”

Ron frowned, as if trying to remember the date.

“Wait – so have you kissed anyone?” Hermione’s breathless laugh was tinged with irritation, Harry still awkwardly and helplessly wishing for an intervention; he could already see the danger cropping up from this conversation at break neck speed. He took a sip of pumpkin juice from his goblet, trying to feign obliviousness.

“Yes, Ronald, I have kissed someone, but why that’s any of your business, I don’t know,” Hermione looked positively ferocious now, wild, bushy hair splaying across the table around her as she bent her head over her reopened book, making a point of turning away from Ron. Ron looked rather perturbed now, sending Harry an annoyed glance, as if trying to reel out some sympathy from his friend; the bespectacled hero shrugged; their love life really had nothing to do with him, much as he wished he could do something about it.

“Hermione, what are you on about?” His face changed, expression clearing.

“You mean Krum, don’t you? Ginny was right?!”

Hermione furiously turned back to him.

“Yes, Ron, I do – I did kiss him. What of it? Why should it matter? It was two years ago – and you barely made an effort last time so why bother now?”

Ron grimaced, looking forlorn.

“I have tried now, and, well…” His eyes took on a desperate glance as he leaned in to the both of them. “She won’t leave me alone, Harry. All she wants to do is snog me. My lips have felt dry for weeks now,”

Hermione merely raised an eyebrow; Harry was a bit more bombastic in response, as he spat his pumpkin juice back into his goblet.

“Way too much detail, mate,” Harry choked back.

Ron scrunched up his nose in frustration.

Hermione stared at him, leaning in herself.

“Then why not break up with her if she’s causing you this much grief? It can’t be that detrimental –“

“Hermione!” Her two best friends hissed in unison, which made the young witch narrow her eyes.

“Well, it’s true; I see no reason to beat around the bush about it.”

Ron’s shoulders fell with disdain.

“I can barely walk anywhere five minutes without her coming up to me; it’s like I’m a magnet for her –“

Harry’s eyes had grown wide, Hermione furiously biting her lip; Ron paused in his thoughts, looking between them.

“What’s wrong?” He looked to Harry, who made a subtle nod to his right (Ron’s left), and when he turned to look, Lavender Brown, in all her effervescent glory, was standing beside him, smiling so widely it looked almost painful. Harry decided it must have been a hard look to pull off.

“Hi, Ron,” she said, glowing with energy. Hermione thought if she’d been a lightbulb, she might have been hard to look at. Sweet as Lavender was – innocence in abundance – she lacked the integrity of some other people Hermione knew; notably, a particular redheaded sister of her friend’s.

And for some reason, a pale blonde Slytherin popped into her head as well.

Hermione shifted in her seat, taken aback by the idea.

Malfoy had integrity? She supposed so, in some ways – he was certainly honest, even if his morals did lean towards the direction of ‘twisted’; raising her eyebrows in agreement with herself, she felt rather resigned to the fact that she couldn’t exactly deny it.

“I was wondering… would you like to come and study with me tonight?” Lavender had that same painfully cheerful grin on her face, as if she were trying to smile as hard as she could, as if to convince everyone of just how happy she was.

Ron seemed to be finding it difficult to string together coherent sentences.

“Lav,” – Good start, thought Hermione – “Um… I, uh-“

Hermione’s expression had progressed to one of hooded-eyed contempt, as if she was burning a hole in his forehead.

Harry was cautiously glancing between the three people in front of him, rather outnumbered in terms of neutral bystanders. He seemed to be the only one emotionally unaffected by this – something he realised he was a lot more grateful for than he’d thought.

Hermione looked positively done with the conversation – and it had barely even started.

“Ron promised to study with us,” she said, a vacant expression on her face that held her curious turned up lip; the expression Hermione Granger pulled when she knew what she wanted and would karate chop anyone who dared refuse her.

Lavender’s bright eyes dulled when she turned her gaze to her, pouting her lips in a sulky manner.

“Did he?”

Hermione’s lips remained pursed, but she briefly raised her eyebrows in a haughty manner – in a look that said ‘so there’. Lavender looked more put out than Harry had ever seen her.

“I see,” she barely choked out a response, gripping her cloth satchel by its strap so much that her knuckles turned white. Lavender looked ditsy – bangles on her arms, wavy hair tied up with gypsy strips of cloth; her layered, vividly coloured t-shirts and jeans, and a lustful look in her eyes despite how Ron had just rejected her. Hermione couldn’t deny that she was pretty – in a bright, open way – but that didn’t amount to everything.

“Well then, I’ll see you tomorrow,” There were tears already forming between her lashes, and Hermione, still looking at her with a harsh, cool glare in her eyes. Lavender looked her way, perfectly hiding a scowl behind her pretty lips, but Hermione blinked once, feeling just a little bad that she’d made her cry. That she’d caused her pain.

Ron was her boyfriend, after all. Hermione couldn’t change that, no matter how she felt about it.

The guilt swamped her almost immediately, and she looked down to her half touched food as Lavender made a dignified exit, at least, holding back her tears with a great deal of effort. It was wet anger, Hermione thought; the kind of anger that belied all sense of anger at all.

“What the bloody hell was that about?” Ron seemed completely oblivious to Lavender’s state, but Hermione watched with a guilty interest as both Parvati Patil and Cho Chang got up almost immediately, pained looks on their faces as Lavender came crying to them, guiding her to a chair. Hermione coughed indiscreetly, trying to expel the overwhelming sense of dread that had settled over. She really could be so harsh with people sometimes.

She turned to her open book again, practically burying her head in it, just as Ron said,

“Oh, bloody hell,”

Hermione and Harry both swung in the direction Ron was staring at with a certain amount of disdain, as in walked Draco Malfoy and Theo Nott, both strolling in with confidence and smirks on their faces, Pansy Parkinson jumping up at the sight of them.

Hermione reproachfully watched him walk in – she still couldn’t believe she’d held his cheek earlier that day; whatever had come over her was really beginning to irritate her, and it seemed almost stupid that she’d thought to do it in the first place. She reminded herself that this was the boy who’d mercilessly tortured and bullied her, regardless of how she felt or what she said.

Yet, even as she watched him, pale blonde hair illuminated by the torches of the hall, and a sophistication about how he walked into the hall; it seemed almost ridiculous… not to admire him. Not to see him as she did now.

He’d looked sad; reproachful; lonely in so many moments before. Even when he’d been bullying her – she had always thought so, horrible as it was – that he seemed uncomfortable doing it – like it wasn’t truly in him or his nature to hurt intentionally.

And she had begun to hold onto that idea – that maybe Draco wasn’t as harsh and cold as she’d thought.

Malfoy seemed to pause just behind Theo; a hesitation in his gait like he’d just realised he’d forgotten something. Hermione supposed one felt watched no matter the circumstance, with that strange voice in your head telling you:

_You’re not being passed by._

He turned to look over his shoulder, scanning the crowd of people sitting down before him; his eyes glazed over the majority, and then came clear when he spotted the entirety of the Golden Trio staring at him with rapt attention.

And then it slipped to look at only Hermione, and she blinked once, leaning back a little.

 _That_ she had _not_ been expecting.

It seemed to halt the world around her; she found it increasingly hard to look away from him, and all at once he seemed to understand how she felt; the guilt, the misunderstanding; the confusion as to why they would bother to look at each other.

Hermione tried to cement the name to the front of her head: Draco Malfoy. Slytherin. Bully. Son of Lucius Malfoy.

_In league with Voldemort._

There was that little voice again, eating away at her resolve like acid on skin. It didn’t matter; it shouldn’t have mattered.

But it did. Malfoy’s gaze towards her suddenly did matter to her – a lot more beyond ‘mutual hate of each other’. This was something that she couldn’t describe for all the world; it was a small and intimate and lonely thing; something that she kept to herself, the confusion surrounding it as it festered away. Why did she care? Why?

Malfoy inclined his head towards her, just once, in a subtle nod to her existence, and then he moved on, never once looking back.

Hermione frowned his way, watching as he was greeted to the Slytherin table with open arms.

Their Pale Prince come to be with thine fine mortals.

Hermione sniffed at the image; he was the furthest from ‘Prince’ as you could get – but the terrifying, alluring charm of him, that was somehow now attracting her, beguiled and confused her, but irritated and worried her above all else.

“What was that about? What was he staring at?” Ron seemed as confused as Hermione did, although for totally different reasons, it would seem. She sighed, her head, dipping to read her book again.

“I wouldn’t know.”

The table collapsed into silence, none of the three parties entirely sure about what to say now that everything had pretty much been said. Hermione – and Harry – was glad of it. It gave her time to think, even if it would be a short lived peace. Being friends with her two erratic, honest, brilliant friends meant that life was never to slow down: Harry would jump in headfirst, regardless of danger; Ron would follow his best friend, and be the kind one when Harry forgot about how important he was; and Hermione would jump in after the both of them, looking out for her boys, because she loved them.

Because they meant so much more to her than casual company. They’d pulled her out of the sinking hole that had whispered to her, over and over again, that nobody would ever be friends with someone who claimed to know everything already.

And Harry and Ron had made a stand – a wobbly one – and said that she could be with them; she could be friends with them.

And no matter what happened – no matter how they got separated or torn apart…

It seemed like heroes stuck together no matter what you did to them.

“You shouldn’t frown when you’re eating; you’ll choke,”

The boys jumped in their seats as Luna Lovegood stood by them, dreamily looking around her as she spoke. She had a habit of jumping out of corners you didn’t even know existed, which could be highly disconcerting if you weren’t sure why she’d done it to you.

“Huh?” Harry said in a tone that mirrored shocked and feigned calm at the same time. Obviously Harry was in the business of making sure Luna never felt ostracized; yet Hermione thought it odd that he hadn’t told her not to do that in passing.

“You’re frowning while you’re eating, Ron – you’ll end up choking,” she repeated herself with relative calm, another one of her functional attributes: the supposed lack of agitation in her character. Hermione couldn’t ever recall seeing her angry or upset.

Ron looked understandably confused, but he tried for an encouraging smile nonetheless, through chewing a piece of bacon no less. Hermione scowled in his direction – did he ever stop eating?!

Luna smiled sweetly back at him. She turned to Harry seamlessly.

“Did you know that Professor McGonagall had been looking for you, Harry? She wanted to know,”

Hermione turned her scowl to Harry instead, who caught it with a sheepish grimace and a casual ruffling of his hair.

“You haven’t seen her yet, Harry?”

He laughed nervously, trying and failing to avoid her arrow-like gaze.

“Well, I was… busy…”

“You were tailing Malfoy, weren’t you?”

Harry tried for a look of innocence, but it didn’t really work. He seemed to shrug, then grimace, then abandon both expressions, instead opting for a sheepish laugh.

Hermione glared over at him.

“Harry, you have better things to be doing than tailing Malfoy! We’ve said he’s not a Death Eater, yet you insist he is! When are you going to accept that you’re wrong? McGonagall specifically asked –“

“I get it Hermione, alright?” The agitated tone of his voice dissipated quickly, as he scowled down at his plate. Luna, however, seemed blissfully unaware of the turmoil.

“Did you know you have gold glitter in your hair, Hermione? It looks rather nice. You should keep it.” Forever, it seemed, would Luna Lovegood be kookily endearing. Harry snorted into his dinner, sort of listening and half laughing at his own internal joke:

Malfoy with glitter in his hair.

Ron glanced between the two of them, now thoroughly confused despite the rather obvious, tense atmosphere. He tried for clarification.

“Wait – what? What do you - ”

“It doesn’t matter, Ronald,” Hermione snapped, looking at Luna in such an imploring way that Luna smiled serenely back at her.

She was unnervingly immune to conflict, a quality Hermione desperately wished she had; her temper could do with a little down time.

Luna tilted her head to the side, pale, blonde hair falling across her shoulders as it revealed her dangly, star earrings, glinting and sparkling in the flickering light of the candles, her silky, midnight blue kimono spattered with silver constellations that winked in the light. Today she had dressed rather like a cross between a Japanese geisha and gypsy, her kimono thrown over a pair of navy jeans, a long, silver top that sloped around her figure in swathes of silk, and a pair of ratty, high-top converse that were coloured a luminescent turquoise, Spectrespecs still perched in amongst the tangled mess of her hair.

She looked a little out there, for sure, but Hermione rather admired her commanding presence of indifference to everyone else. It radiated to all the occupants of the room, whether they knew she was there or not.

Luna Lovegood was noticed even when she didn’t mean to be.

“Your cheeks look different too, Hermione. Is that why you did your hair up?”

Hermione froze, caught off guard by her comment.

Her cheeks? Her hair? What was she on about?

Luna pouted her lips in concentration.

“Hmmmm – I suppose I could be wrong. Has it anything to do with Malfoy?”

Ron turned his head towards her; Harry looked up suspiciously. Hermione tried to keep a firm grip on her spoon, but saw it noticeably shaking violently in her hand, so sat in down on the table with trembling fingers.

“I don’t know what you mean, Luna.” The words were hard to form, despite how few they were. Luna smiled breezily at her.

And out of nowhere, she just skipped off towards the Slytherin table, much to Ron’s continuing confusion.

“What the bloody hell is going on?”

Harry shook his head incredulously.

“I have no idea,”

΅                    ΅                    ΅

Theo hadn’t been in the best of moods that day – not only did Saturdays drag to the point he’d rather get wacked unconscious instead of having to suffer them, but also because he’d grown tired of spending it alone in the Slytherin Common Room, forever hauled into watching Pansy Parkinson whine about the unfairness of youth or something. He’d heard the reel so many times he’d practically tuned out of it.

Saturdays started off early, ended late, and flew by at the pace of a snail. He’d work, go to the library, and lounge about in the Common Room till dinner, and through all of that, Draco would remain silent and focussed, clearly reading the same page over and over just so people would leave him alone – including Theo. He was always quiet, and always someplace else in his head.

He liked these quiet moments though; he liked the quiet of a lifelong friendship – were silence meant absolutely nothing, and where saying nothing was perfectly acceptable. The relationship of a Malfoy and a Nott was based on trust (and sarcasm, usually), rather than inconsistent chatter that never bordered on anything worth talking about. He liked that about Draco – he understood what it meant to be quiet, and not feel the need to say anything.

However, Draco had been quiet in a completely different way today, and that was beginning to worry him. Substantially.

He had been quiet in a way that resembled the quiet of someone who was hiding something – like the immeasurable anger of a wrong done against them, or a sadness so great that words weren’t worth using to describe it.

In fact, Theo was near sure that Draco was hiding something; but whatever that something might be, he certainly hadn’t divulged it to him, and that was what was worrying him.

Normally, Malfoys kept to themselves – it was almost like a family tradition: to never speak of went on in the house, or the family, because snitching was a sin against them. It was a betrayal of family.

And a betrayal of family was the greatest sin of all.

Even now, as the both of them sauntered into the Great Hall, Theo still felt a rising amount of trepidation in his gut; Draco had clearly been irked by something, and had been wilfully refusing to divulge anything of it to him. Sure, Theo got when it was better to not be a nosy git, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped – everyone was always too curious for their own good.

He frowned despite himself, shoving his hands into the pockets of his black jeans, bunching in his lithe shoulders in his ill fitted ivy green jumper, so chunky that it choked him.

Thank Merlin for the cold of Scotland, otherwise he’d never be able to wear it.

The Great Hall, as always, was bustling this time of the evening. The tables were already adorned in every mouth-watering food stuff imaginable, decadent and elegant and absolutely ravishing to look at. His stomach had been growling at him to eat for hours now, but he’d resolved those many hours ago that sniffing out the reason for Draco’s eerie silence proved more important.

The torches along the walls bathed the room in dimmed, golden light, soft on faces and pleasing to smiles. It made everyone look content, even their darkest thoughts masked by the rich warmth of Christmas flames. The fires roared in their hearths, candles dancing in wobbly fashions above their heads, the star strewn sky winking at them from the rafters. Hogwarts truly knew how to put on a show, Theo thought, when one took the time to observe it.

He took a fleeting glance at the fir tree at the front of the hall before he was pulled down to sit at the Slytherin table, faces eagerly turned towards himself and Draco even more so. Blaise was carefully eating his food with a practiced patience, ignoring with resigned calm the fuss made over the Snake’s Prince, instead, reading the Daily Prophet with a blank expression. His dark skin was made rich like coffee in the light, dark eyes focused and unreadable.

Theo frowned harder. It was Christmas – Zabini really needed to learn when to lighten up.

Thrust into a chair beside Pansy Parkinson, Theo found his back facing the rest of the Hall, thus preventing him the chance to feign interest as he stared at everyone else but the weaselly face of Pansy Parkinson. Her sharp black bob would have been nice in a 20’s style, if she’d had a regal face and ruby lips; instead, she’d been gifted with a pig-like snout of a nose and pudgy cheeks, but her eyes glinted fire and her smirk demanded war.

Pansy Parkinson had no beauty to contest with, but then again: beauty wasn’t her area of interest.

“Draco,” Pansy practically purred his name, leaning across the table as she propped her chin up on her hands, trying her absolute best to make herself look pretty. From Theo’s point of view, it wasn’t really working – just giving poor Draco a better vantage point of her nose hair.

Draco barely looked her way, his own chin propped up on the palm of his hand. He sent her a cursory glance, enough to prompt her next drawl.

“Do you want to come up to the Common Room with me later?”

“Everyone’s going up to the Common Room, Parkinson; it’s of no concern to me what you do,”

This particular jest made Pansy take on an even more hideous look, her nose contorted in such a fashion that made Theo wince thinking about the strain it would have had between her eyebrows. However, he didn’t feel overly sorry for her – Draco was a highly disinterested party in their ‘relationship’ – something that couldn’t be defined by any other word. It wasn’t romantic, it wasn’t affectionate; it certainly wasn’t sexual, unless Theo had been hearing wrong and the cat’s mewls as it went without food were actually something entirely different.

He kind of wished he had the wherewithal to look for a partner – or friend, of some kind.

Quite possibly in Ravenclaw, if he gathered together the meagre scraps of confidence he had with that kind of thing.

Sighing, Theo turned to look behind him, trying in a desperate attempt to appear as if he was leaving.

Just as a young blonde began floating down the Hall towards him.

Theo had precisely 3 seconds to decide if he wanted to run, stay or hide, and he chose neither of the three, as Luna swept towards him in her silken navy kimono, star spangled earrings glittering in the firelight and a positively dreamy look on her face that said she was here and far away simultaneously.

Theo gulped. Not the situation he’d been hoping for.

She had, as always, worn an expression of complete contentment with her absurdity. She had never shown cause to be annoyed or upset or embarrassed that no one understood her. In fact, she rather seemed to like informing people of her weirdness.

However, Slytherins - despite their unwavering loyalty to those they knew – did not know Luna, so she did not count as one of those people. Now or ever.

Her kimono billowed behind her as she came to stop beside him, the majority of Slytherin table looking up at her with puzzlement in their eyes. Sure, Ravenclaws weren’t as combustible as the golden Gryffindors, but Loony Lovegood?

“Hello, Theo,” she said brightly, not in the least bit concerned with the 30 – odd gazes all turned in her direction. Theo continued to stare at her, still trying to process all the intricate details of her clothes, and her hair, and her eyes, and her lips. She had a faint blue lipstick on, he thought – one that shimmered.

It made her lips way too attractive.

To his utter horror, the voice in his head reminded him Luna didn’t usually wear makeup – she left statements to her clothes.

“Do you mind if I sit down? I felt like dancing with danger tonight – must be the moon. It has phases, you know,” she smiled innocently, slipping into the place beside him on the bench, graceful like the hare of her Patronus. He only knew that because he’d seen her cast it one day – when she’d been alone by the lake on a snowy January morning, over a year ago.

Clearly, Theodore Nott was besotted.

Stricken like a jarring note shuddered the senses in a concerto; like an arrow through his heart as the blood dripped from the wound.

Bad and good and everything in between. Theo was infatuated with a girl he could never, ever have, and never have claimed to have wanted.

He cursed his bloodline, his birth and his house all in one second before she turned her gaze directly to him.

Her eyes shimmered too – a faint greyish-blue with pale eyelashes curling on her cheeks. She blinked a lot less than other people – as if for fear she might miss something.

Theo thought she wouldn’t miss a lot – she would notice what everyone else glazed over.

These fantasies really had to stop.

Draco, who had now finally gotten something to entertain him, adopted his signature smirk on his face; the devil knowing who he reckoned with.

Theo grimaced – this wouldn’t be good.

“Luna,” even now, Draco managed to be polite, in the most subtly sarcastic way he could muster. This was too good.

Theo sat looking at him with a mix of contempt and anguish, both parts pleading with him and plotting his murder. Draco could barely contain himself. Now that he knew Theo’s unrelenting crush? This ditsy, yet entrancing girl from Ravenclaw, whose hair was like a bird nest and who spoke two pitches higher than everyone else, in some dreamy tone you heard in a Divination classroom?

 _Priceless_ , Draco thought. _Bloody priceless._

“Yes, Draco?” Her starry eyes turned to him.

“You know Theo?”

Her head tilted ever so slightly.

“You know that, Draco. You shouldn’t ask questions you know the answers to – it’s called an unfair advantage,”

Draco tipped his head in agreement, smirk widening.

“I suppose,”

Luna turned to Theo. “You know, the moon is only half-bright tonight – I hope the clouds won’t block it. Otherwise, I might not be able to hear what it’s saying to the stars – I think there’s something important they’re discussing. Probably the solar system,” She smiled whimsically, perfectly content with the idea. Theo stayed stock still, desperately, uselessly trying to avoid the scent of her flowery perfume, or the delicate swish of her kimono across his thigh as she adjusted how she sat.

“The moon, Lovegood? You out for a romantic midnight stroll?”

Luna looked on curiously.

“It could only be romantic if I was with someone.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No,”

“I know someone who’d be happy to join you -”

“Just shut up, Draco,” Theo snapped.

“Oooh, touchy,” he snorted, making Theo run a hand through his hair with tension. He would shove pudding down that weasel’s throat, so help him, if it shut him up.

“Anyway,” Theo hastily tried to turn the conversation, earnestly looking at Blaise for backup. He merely stared on, the whisper of a smile on his lips. Theo’s brow furrowed – some friends these were.

“Are you _sure_ though? Because he’s _very_ easily persuaded -”

“ _Draco_ ,”

“A few sweet words – it doesn’t take much, I swear -”

“Draco, I’m _warning_ you-”

“I’m sure there’s somewhere quiet you can go -”

Pansy spluttered into her drink, pig-like nose suddenly flaring with laughter. Theo whipped his head round to scowl at her, but she continued laughing into her goblet, furiously trying to calm town her giggles by shoving scrambled egg into her mouth.

So far, this conversation had nosedived way faster than Theo had ever anticipated – all in front of the girl who he was absolutely smitten with, yet who sat on, blissfully unaware of their taunts. She even wore that small, confused but polite little smile that showed she was trying to be kind for the sake of everyone else.

Theo frowned.

These people.

“Can we please stop talking about this now?”

Draco mockingly pouted at his friend, barking with laughter at Theo’s deadpan stare.

“Aw what, is this all a little too euphemistic for you, Nott? We can tone it down for you if you want –“

“I’d rather that Luna not have to listen to it, actually, if you’d bothered to ask beforehand,”

Draco tutted.

“Honestly, Theo, if you were going to be any more dull you’d be a brick. Lighten up,”

“This isn’t a case of lighting up,” Theo seethed through his gritted teeth, trying to avoid looking into Luna’s pale eyes -which he could very clearly see, from the corner of his eyes – which were staring up at him in mild amusement. He wondered was she too polite to say it, but that she truly thought his so-called friends were actually totally bonkers? Theo wasn’t entirely sure she thought them sane.

Even if she was – even he had to admit – a little eccentric herself.

Draco seemed to be looking at him in an almost… disgruntled manner, as if he were saying something that wasn’t scripted when he’d thought all this up in his head. Theo scrunched his nose in annoyance – there were some things in life that just annoyed him no matter the situation. Draco Malfoy being a cocky, manipulative bastard was one of them.

Luna ever thinking that he was a bad choice of friend was another.

Luna seemed to have turned her attention to Draco, and he seemed to have let it go unnoticed so far.

“Draco, I have a very serious question to ask you,” Luna said suddenly, dropping the question quite easily, despite the complete irrelevance. She had an eerie habit of getting everyone’s attention when she wanted to say something.

Draco lazily turned his head towards her, trying to look bored – truth be told, the fact that Lovegood had something singularly queued up to say to him intrigued him.

“Mmm?” He mumbled, chin slumping in his hand.

“Is it true that you still have feelings for Hermio-“

Draco’s eyebrows shot up his forehead like lightening, quite unable to understand where that had come from.

And how on earth had she -?

Draco decided fairly quickly not to dwell on the details – this was Luna. No one ever knew what was coming from her head next.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he snapped, furiously glaring at her; as per usual, Luna remained blissfully unperturbed.

“It’s just you seem rather preoccupied with her these days. You seem to pay particular attention to her mouth – did you still not kiss someone? I did mention your lips looked a little worse for wear. Maybe you should use some lip balm,” she continued breezily, unaware of the rising heat to Draco’s face.

This conversation - on any planet, galaxy, _universe_ \- was _wholly unacceptable_.

Abruptly standing from the table, Draco blurted out,

“I’m going up to study,” as he glared at Luna, glanced at Theo, and then stormed off from his place like a cat after a mouse, away in an instant and leaving a very confused Luna at the table. Her wide blue eyes made her look like she’d been permanently startled and couldn’t quite remember what if felt like to be at ease.

She paused, biting her lip.

“Was it something I said?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue was a little harder to construct this time, so sorry if some of the characters are a little OOC (especially Draco). Sometimes it's hard to find the right mind-set to write in these characters heads!!


	4. Guilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincerest apologies about the late update - time has flown by and this fic fell to the wayside. However, I hope to begin more regular updates; I have an idea of how I'd like it to end, so stay tuned. For now - enjoy this chapter!

 

It wasn’t until Draco flung open the common room door and fell into the nearest chair that he realized how unnervingly close that had been.

He hadn’t expected Lovegood to be _that_ on point – Merlin knew he had enough people snooping about in his life without having some dotty Ravenclaw sticking her nose in as well.

Draco sighed, running a hand through his pale, blond hair – sometimes life here was too much like a trial to sometimes even contemplate getting up in the morning. Ever since Voldemort had taken to using Malfoy Manor as a base for all the dark, unmentionable things he considered and probably would commit, things had been getting tenser by the minute. If not for the fact that he could come to Hogwarts each year to at least partially escape everything, Draco had no doubt he’d feel like he was drowning alive.

He supposed, in a way, he _already_ felt like that. Like some rope had knotted itself around his neck, getting tighter and tighter the more he tried to ignore the reality of where he stood, and that terrified him; it shook him to deep places in his soul that he hadn’t even been aware existed.

If the rope got any tighter, he’d choke.

And now, with all that on his shoulders, suddenly all that seemed to permeate his thoughts – dominate them so much that he could barely sleep without seeing her – was Granger, her hair and her scowl and notorious lip-biting as she furiously searched for an answer to yet _another_ stupid question, Draco becoming far too aware of the young witch, near strangling himself as he tried to simultaneously _not_ think of her, and just get up and push her against some wall, demanding she leave his head immediately.  

And yet…

There was something about her that made him feel like he could still _try_ – even just a little bit – to be a better person, and choose the right path; the right key to the right door, and decide that enough was enough, and he was through with being clawed back by the darkness.

His head always screamed at him that any more fantasies like that, and he really _would_ end up dead.

Groaning, he let his head settle back on the chair, ripping off his tie and letting it slip from his fingers to the ground, pooling at the foot of the chair. It was fittingly upholstered in charcoal grey and forest green stripes – inherently, darkly elegant – but everything in this common room was more like home than his actual one. The high, latticed windows looked out into the depths of Hogwarts Lake, giving off the eerie, but calming, green hue of the water, fish or even the Giant Squid slowly moving past, tentacles almost delicate as it paid little attention to anything. The lanterns, the dark atmosphere – it was quiet, tranquil; a place to think. Draco needed to think these days, and more often than not, try to fall asleep in places that helped him think of nothing but empty spaces.

And try not to think of the screams that he sometimes heard downstairs at the Manor, no matter how far he pulled the cover up over his head. 

He shivered, unnaturally cold, huddling into his arms, wafer-thin shirt too close in shade to the pallor of his skin.

It truly did feel like a shipwreck in here, surrounded by water and cool stone and wooden tables and ancient furniture.

Maybe he had been meant to drown all along.

Draco turned his head away from the crook of the chair, turning to look out at the common room again. It was a tall room, by most standards – pillars that towered above the students, standing guard by the windows as they held up the ceiling, the mantle looking almost as proud as those insufferable Lions huddled up in that odious Gryffindor Tower. He didn’t so much dislike the idea of looking out into the grounds, and up into the sky - watching as the sky changed its mood too often as the seasons came and went - but more to do with the people who resided in it.

Except, of course, that’s where a Princess was supposed to be, right?

Trapped in her tower? Looking to the ground to see when her knight would come?

Draco scoffed, looking up at the ceiling again. He could hardly imagine Granger ever needing being saved from anything – she was too stubborn for that.

Behind him, Draco heard the familiar groan of the stone wall receding as a new occupant entered into the common room, clearly having had enough of the feast as well.

Probably Theo, considering how he’d looked ready to bolt the last time Draco had seen him, with Lovegood pressed up at his side, looking even more insane than before.

Draco nibbled his lip in annoyance – he still had to give her credit though: Merlin, she knew a thing or two about people. He still couldn’t get how she’d even managed to get so close to the truth so quickly. Was he really being so vulnerable and bare?

Deciding to ask Theo, since he was already here to give him the blunt advice he needed, Draco lifted himself out of the chair slowly.

“Nott, if that’s you, I have a question about-“

Looking up, Draco realised two things:

One: That was most definitely not Theo.

Two: Shit, this was bad.

Instead of his friend – probably best friend, if Draco wasn’t so conceited to consider admitting that – coming through the porthole, it was Pansy Parkinson, still looking as murderous as ever, no matter the weather, black hair too sharp for her face. Draco didn’t fancy her as ugly, per se – Theo did, but then Theo would rather have strung her guts up around the ceiling and did a merry dance around the common room. She wasn’t so much pug-faced as more sinister, sharp, crude features making her look both dead and very ill at the same time, as if she couldn’t decide what she preferred being. Although she wasn’t pretty, there was a certain quality about her – Draco didn’t know what to call it; perhaps _rawness_ was the word – that made her very striking. And with the thick line of eyeliner on her top lid, and lips curled in a permanent sneer, the ruby red shaded a dark plum in the dim light, she was forcefully, powerfully recognizable, even if it wasn’t a face that did her many favours otherwise.

One look at Draco, and her sneer melted into an open mouthed smile, eyes becoming misty with addiction.

Draco grimaced. _Merlin, here we go._

“Parkinson, I haven’t the mind to talk to you tonight, so just piss off to some corner, alright?”

Pansy pouted in annoyance, sidling up to him as Draco scrambled (at least, as inconspicuously as he could manage) for purchase on one of the chairs across the room, feeling too bewildered and dazed and infused with the sight and smell of toffee, and the girl whose head looked like coffee swirls and caramel, voice too loud and face too proud to be a Slytherin, but perfect to be a lion,

And perfect to intoxicate him with her very presence.

Draco shook his head, dragging a lithe hand through his hair again, now looking so rumpled it was like he’d just rolled out of bed.

“Oh, but Draco, come on, you’ve been like this since the start of the year-“

“Have I?” he snapped, whirling his head around to look at her, infusing as much rage into his stare as he thought he could get away with. With Parkinson? Probably not much, but just enough to make his point known.

“I don’t know, Pansy, is my life being overtaken by dark forces not a good enough excuse to be in a bad mood?”

Pansy breathed in through her nose, making him realize too late that she was already angry enough without tempting her to do something she’d regret.

“Draco, stop being such a child!”

“I’m not being a child, Parkinson, I’m being honest with myself!”

Pansy stormed over to him, hand grabbing his arm painfully.

“You’ve become such a shell of yourself, you’re hardly you anymore,”

Draco sneered down at her, wrenching his arm free.

“I suppose you much preferred it when I lorded it over you and sucked up your praise like some idiot, then?”

Now it was Pansy’s turn to sneer.

“I preferred it when you actually gave a damn about me!”

“Well, tough luck, Parkinson! I’m past you and your stupid games! Honestly, if you expected me to be fixated on gaining _your_ attention for the rest of my life, what a truly awful mess we’d be in then!”

For a moment, she seemed genuinely shocked by his words, like he’d suddenly sliced her cheek with a knife, the blood fresh on her skin, but suddenly her lips were parted and her voice had become husky, and suddenly Draco was more wary of her than he’d ever been in his life.

“Maybe you wouldn’t dislike me so much if you knew what it was like,”

It wasn’t a question.

“If I knew what was what, Parkin -”

And then, she’d taken his face in her hands, ice cold against his already icy skin, and suddenly her lips were against his and he was thrown into a state of abhorrence, confusion and hormone-riddled anxiety, not sure what he ought to be doing.

And then this _other_ feeling.

This raging, tormenting, fierce burn in his chest that told him this was all _wrong_ , _all of it_ , and that he wanted anything but this, at any point in his life.

Draco didn’t know how long it lasted, but made the effort to end it as quickly as he thought he could manage, wrenching her hands from off of his face, pulling away forcefully, ignoring Pansy’s flushed cheeks and the searing tinge of her still left on his mouth, and how he didn’t care if she saw him wipe away the remnants of it ever happening with the back of his hand. To let her see the disgust and hatred in his eyes.

“The hell, Parkinson?!”

Pansy looked probably more shocked than upset, staring at him like she’d never seen him before. Given the amount of crazy things going on around here, the majority of them in Draco’s head, he didn’t have to imagine how unnatural he looked. He _knew_ there were dark circles under his eyes – sweeps of purple and grey that made him look caved in and ill, almost dead if he wasn’t breathing so hard, nearly tripping over his own feet as he turned away, unfazed by the small, silent tears now sliding down Pansy’s cheeks, staining her cheeks with her mascara. It wasn’t a good look for her, and it elicited only one ounce of sympathy for her on Draco’s part, before he forcefully turned his back to her, shoving the thought from his head.

She’d forced herself on him – in actuality, he had more right to cry than she ever did.

“I’m going to bed.” It wasn’t even a statement aimed at her, but he said it anyway, just as a further excuse to get away from her and all her overwhelming, suffocating pity and forced love.

Which it was. Forced down his bloody throat.

Sure, it had been a draw at one time – another way in which he could lord over them all supreme, Pansy hanging off his arm, making every Slytherin girl so deeply jealous that they would have sooner murdered Pansy than go anywhere near him.

He’d be an untouchable thing; a godly figure for their house – the true opponent for saintly Potter. A way to show that all Gryffindors ought not to walk around like they had crowns on their heads.

Somehow, that title had worn thin for him – like a hollow crown on his own head, like a crushing weight he couldn't escape. No matter the jewels or cast iron he imagined it would be made of, he didn’t think it would bring him much comfort.

He was sick of wearing crowns. He was sick of being a symbol.

He was sick of being Draco Malfoy.

 

΅                    ΅                    ΅

Theo wasn’t sure if his brain would implode before his heart exploded, but he sort of figured that both would happen none too soon if Luna Lovegood stayed sat beside him any longer.

It had nearly been a half an hour since Malfoy had left – rather abruptly, Theo thought, when nothing had really been said, from what he could remember – and since then, Pansy too had gotten up to trail after him, leaving him with Blaise and Luna, and a handful of Slytherins still determined to stay in the Great Hall until they absolutely had to go up to bed.

The hall had diminished its light to a soft glow, warming the faces of the remaining students in an ambient light, making them seem almost hazy in the candlelight. Luna was lazily chatting to Blaise, who looked more than a little amused that she’d bothered to even try, but replied with as few words as possible. Luna didn’t seem to mind; she was currently talking about a Charms assignment that had cropped up that afternoon.

“I’m not sure how I might do it – possibly outside, since I can concentrate better…”

Theo had begun to tune out her idle talk, instead watching the light dapple itself through her pale, blonde hair, making it shine, soft curls fanning around her face. Her kimono sleeves had slipped from her shoulders, the soft silk now resting in the crooks of her elbows as she placed them on the table, causing it to float down her back like a shawl.

He thought she looked more radiant than he had ever seen her.

Illuminating; whimsical; like a saintly being he could only half look at, afraid to see her for all her true and fearsome beauty.

He was more afraid of her seeing him glance at her, though, for fear she might realize how he felt.

He knew he wasn’t hiding it well. He could see Blaise sending him a sly smirk his way, anytime he caught him staring at the soft tendrils of her hair or the shape of her blue lips, sparkling slightly with whatever strange, pearlescent lipstick she’d chosen that morning.

He decided that if he was going to fall, he may as well fall hard.

 _Merlin, this girl would be the death of him_.

Blaise turned to Theo, Luna currently gazing up at the star-strewn sky with a dreamy look on her face, chin propped up in one hand. His eyebrow was raised, a quizzical stare in his eyes that told Theo all he needed to know.

 _Time to go_.

“Uh…Luna?” He asked her, but she merely gazed upwards.

A few seconds of silence passed.

“Yes, Theo?”

He sighed, moving to stand up.

“I’m going to bed, so… I’ll see you around?”

 _Idiot_ , he muttered in his head, outwardly cringing just out of her line of sight. Sometimes he couldn’t understand how he wanted to be around her. Some days, he felt like he wanted to just carry her away and tell her how he imagined her features when she wasn’t there, and that her perfume pervaded his senses when he tried to go to sleep, and that even the slightest touch made him go blind with longing, knowing better than anybody that he _couldn’t_ have her, no matter how he felt, or even –achingly, hopefully – how she might feel. Other days, he wanted to admire her from a distance; never speak to her again, but hope that she ended up happy, and that he could see it, even if it was never aimed at him. He didn’t know if he ought to be guarded, open, honest - partially so, even - or just shut up for the rest of the time he ever spent in her company.

Luna Lovegood confused him a great deal more than he would have liked, but he didn’t see any point in trying to deny it now.

Luna finally turned to look up at him, eyes an indefinable colour in the candlelight, mixing with the stars above their head.

“Could you walk me to Ravenclaw tower, please? I’d rather like to have some company in the dark corridors. They’re usually quite comforting but I’m not sure I want to go alone tonight,”

Theo blinked at her, hastily brushing away his fair hair. It had darkened recently with the winter days, now a sort of sandy colour that sometimes looked brown in a dim light, and his eyes were now wide, green-blue irises half worried, a quarter shocked and somehow very, very nervous as well. Blaise stared on too, dark eyes calculating, the flames of the fire flickering across his dark skin, almost as if he was fading into the shadows himself. He was like the scribe of their lives, without ever writing a word. He watched, and observed, and constantly gave the acutest advice, as if he’d seen the situation first-hand, and knew exactly what to do about it.

Theo guessed he probably _was_ there – he was the type to look out for people, and not seek the praise and gratitude for it.

Luna was looking at him with a blank face, waiting for an answer, and Theo wasn’t entirely sure if he could provide her with one. His tongue seemed to have stopped working.

He nodded silently, scratching the back of his neck, watching as she got up from her seat and languidly began her walk down the Great Hall, turning around only once to see if he was coming.

Theo looked back at Blaise, who was no help whatsoever, as he just smiled, ever so slightly, and continued reading the Daily Prophet that had long preoccupied his mind.

Theo threw him an acidic look, knowing full well that Zabini was much too intelligent to read the Prophet; he used it as a means to listen in and observe, without being observed himself.

Holding back from spitting a curse back at him, Theo chased Luna down the rest of the Hall, sidling up to her with a gait that purveyed every shade of awkwardness that he felt around her. The sidelong glances, the muffled words, the awkward stares and the silent appreciation, as he fell back behind her, just a little, so that he wouldn’t have to look into her eyes so much. Talking face to face, making eye contact with her - it was all too much sometimes.

Making their way through the winding staircases and corridors, Theo got the particularly intense feeling of being more at ease than he’d felt in a long time. Being grouped together with the Death Eaters and murderers of the world never sat well with him, especially when, no matter if his father was one or not, he didn’t really agree with them or their actions. So yes, maybe he still needed to work on the Pureblood thing – he knew it wasn’t intelligent to believe certain status’ could be seen as superior – but forgoing that tradition, and trying to strike out on his own, in a world full of Slytherins who _did_ believe it? Theo had a headache too often these days.

Even as they started up the staircase leading to Ravenclaw tower, Theo found it difficult trying to understand why Luna even bothered to be nice to him. He knew what Draco could be like – a firm belief that Muggles had no place in the wizarding world – but he sometimes wondered how honestly he meant it.

Granger, for example.

Something wasn’t right there. He was acting funny about her – no jokes, no smears on her name. Not even a mention, really.

But then Theo looked at his own situation, and grimaced.

He had never outwardly claimed to hate Muggles; he certainly didn’t feel like that anyway. But to think that Luna – pure, honest, _humble_ Luna – was leading him on to believe that maybe he _was_ a good person, when he knew full well he wasn’t, and knew that _he_ had lead _her_ on with that belief?

It made him sick to his knees.

As he watched her climb the steps ahead of him, gait light and unobtrusive, he wondered what she saw in him; what made her think that under all the status, and rumours, and name, that he maybe was a person worth her time or effort. An eagle hoping for the friendship of a snake.

Natural enemies, really - but he wondered if maybe Luna wanted to be a different bird instead. Maybe one not so bothered by the snake and its life.

Maybe just wanting to take it as it was, by itself, rather than see it for its label as her enemy, because others claimed that was the case.

Luna turned around, as they reached the door leading to the Ravenclaw Tower, and beyond, their common room. Her kimono was still around her arms, sleeves hanging over her hands, but she merely had them clasped underneath, behind her back. Her eyes sparkled and her hair waved lightly in a breeze that seemed to be coming from somewhere above their heads, and for a moment, Theo was caught by the sensation that everything about her seemed… unnatural, somehow. As if, even in a community full of strange people, she was stranger still.

He supposed that was true.

“Well, thank you, Theo. For walking me. It was rather lovely, wasn’t it?”

Her lips smiled slightly.

Theo smiled, lips a straight line, quirking his eyebrows in agreement - yet still lost for words.

He grasped at some.

“Yeah, I guess so. We didn’t talk much.”

“Oh, that’s alright. Sometimes silence is easier than speaking, you know? I find it helps me think,”

Theo laughed quietly, running a hand through his hair.

“I could see that being a typical case with you,”

Luna smiled with her teeth this time, cheeks peach in the glow of the lamps in the corridor. His breath hitched, and he tried to force down his blush.

Damn this crush.

“You seem sad, though. As if you can’t make your mind up about something important.”

He turned to look above him, aware that the ceiling was still much too high for him to see, even up at one of the tallest towers. This building could still astonish him sometimes, when he least expected it.

“Doesn’t everybody have important things on their mind?”

Luna tilted her head, considering.

“Important to them specifically, yes. But you seem… like you’re trying to solve a problem that everyone else ought to be helping with.”

Theo quirked an eyebrow, impressed even yet by her acute observations.

“You could call it that,” he muttered, glancing sideways. You could call many things in his head 'something like that'. 

“Hmmmm,” the sound was gentle – again, quintessentially Luna; she didn’t pry – but he wished for a moment that she had asked him what _was_ the matter; pushed for an answer, maybe in some vain hope that she would share the burden with him, or give him the answer he needed. Tell him why he had to be in such a mess, with so much at stake, and why so much had to be expected from a 16 year old boy who didn’t even know what he wanted to do with his life yet, never mind decide if he wanted to wage a war in the name of a man who should have been dead, and a man who had never loved him like he thought his mother would have.

Being a Nott meant more than being a Pureblood, or a Slytherin, or whatever.

It meant being another name that could be banded about by people who thought they knew what he wanted.

He hated that the most, more than anything.

His name was his shackles, and he might yet suffer for it.

Luna was looking at him with a pensive expression, eyes un-narrowed yet somehow haunting, as if unpicking him bit by bit, wondering if maybe the jigsaw just didn’t fit right; searching for the wrong piece in the wrong place. Searching to see if could she find the problem, even if she wouldn’t press him further on the issue.

Theo coughed, feeling more than a little invaded.

Like her or not, his privacy was his own, and even she wasn’t allowed that deep.

“Well, thank you, Theo. Goodnight,”

It was abrupt, yes, but seeing the tail end of her white blonde hair and silken kimono gave him the chance to breathe again, as he walked back down the staircase, hearing the riddle said behind his back, but never knowing the answer.

He continued walking, throwing it about in his head.

 

_How do you know you are in love?_

 

The doorknocker had asked a strange question alright.

Theo hadn't a clue, but he somehow guessed it wasn’t an answer easily found. These things never were.

 

As he disappeared down the staircase, Luna slid back against the inside of the door, looking out into the Ravenclaw common room, wondering for a moment if that riddle had been posed as such, for the sake of making her think beyond its answer. To make her question whether it applied to her.

To make it more than a riddle's answer. 

She closed her eyes, still remembering the smell of the forest and the earth from off of him.

Forever a snake - yet never a cruel one.

 

_When you can’t explain it._

 

What an honest truth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you curious about why I describe Theo as fair haired, with pale-ish eyes, it's simply because I never looked up any aesthetic on him before I began reading about his character in fanfiction. He always just came to my head as such. If you find it easier to imagine him otherwise, feel free. It's certainly not set in stone. 
> 
> Hope this chapter made up for the long wait! Reviews and kudos are, as always, much appreciated.


	5. The Assignment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter signifies the turning point for the Dramione relationship - so hopefully it'll set the mood for the rest of this fic. The reviews I've had for this story have been phenomenal - you lovely people never cease to amaze me! Thank you for your continued support!

 

Ever since their unfortunate kiss, Pansy had been avoiding Draco to the point of treating him like a disease she ought to stand several hundred feet away from. Not that he minded much, since Pansy was an annoying, insufferable, whiny, torturous brat, but it was largely making the rest of the school wonder what the hell was going on.

Draco didn’t much like attention, especially from the sodding Gryffindors, who seemed to find it nigh on impossible to keep their noses out of other people’s business.

He was rather glad to have possession of his own arm for a change, however, so that was something.

However, sitting in Potions on a dreary Monday afternoon was never one of the high points of his day, and by the looks of it, wasn’t about to get much better either.

Draco kept turning around in his seat, furiously wondering if he might yet be able to skip class and somehow find some breathing space away from all these people, but it seemed too fanciful now. If he continued to bring attention to himself, especially with a certain death threat hanging over his head like a permanent thunder cloud, he might end up putting far more people in danger than there already were.

He hated this – hated having to lie, and sneak about, and pretend, and feign obedience to a murderer.

He hated being so manipulated – like a puppet whose strings could never be cut, no matter what he did.

His forearm burned even just thinking about it, a stark reminder that such thoughts could land him in hotter water still. The thing would writhe and move about on his skin like some living creature – a parasite seared into his very soul, coiled around his every thought and desire, knowing exactly how he was at any given point in the day. It had robbed him of his privacy, and it was slowly robbing him of his mind, too.

Draco dug his nails into his palm, ignoring the pain. Now was really not the time.

At that point, Granger slipped through the door, Potter skulking about behind her at her heels, glasses askew and hair looking like a bird had made a permanent nest in it. Draco sneered in his direction, to which Potter sneered back, clearly as agitated by his presence as he was with his. No matter what the stupid idiot did or said, he still irritated him beyond belief, and his hero complex needed a serious toning down. Was there ever going to be a day when saintly Potter didn’t get praise rained down upon him?

Draco grunted to himself. _Probably not_.

He watched the two of them as they slipped into their seats in the middle of the room, as always, with Weasley and his carrot orange hair nowhere to be found. That hardly surprised him – Weasley couldn’t tell the time even if the clocks could talk.

Maybe they could. He hadn’t bothered to investigate that particular area of magic.

Just on their heels, Professor Snape swooped in, forever like a bat that looked permanently disgruntled about something or other, greasy black hair hanging around his face in dark curtains, sallow skin and hollow cheeks a rather intimidating combination even now. The Professor had never been much of a welcomed addition to the teaching body – students had forever dreaded his sour presence, a sneer on his face no matter where he went. And this year, he’d been making more effort than anybody to get in Draco’s way – as he saw it – of the task Voldemort had set him. He seemed adamant that he couldn’t do it alone.

Draco had sneered right back at him, telling him to mind his own damned business, and that he wasn’t a child anymore – he could do it himself.

Other days, he sometimes wished he still was a child, if only to escape this hell he’d found himself in.

Marching to the front of the class, Draco watched with lazy indifference as Snape turned on his heel, just about to address the class when Weasley came running in, cheeks as red as his flame hair. Snape looked to him with a casual glance, one eyebrow raising in a question.

“Mr Weasley. How nice of you to join us. I don’t suppose being late to my class is of any importance to you? Or perhaps you feel exempt from normal timekeeping, considering that you and Mr Potter have been so foolish as to run headlong into danger at every turn, saving us all from mortal peril, no doubt?”

“Sir?” Granger had piped up, hand now waving in the air, in a somewhat half-assed attempt to save Weasley the heat, despite how hilariously funny it was. Weasley looked like a ripe tomato.

“Where’s Professor Slughorn? I thought he was supposed to be our current Potions master?”

Snape didn’t seem at all thrilled that she’d interrupted his no-doubt lengthy lecture riddled with insults for Ron to enjoy, but answered her nonetheless, tone clipped.

“Currently indisposed, Miss Granger. I will be taking this class for today.”

Granger nodded once, lips in a thin line. Draco could really only see the back of her head, hair spiralling out of control from the bushy ponytail she had in, red cloth hairband shoved unceremoniously on top, perhaps in an effort to keep the errant curls away from her eyes.

Draco hated himself for it, but thought she rather suited it.

 _I really have to start getting a leash on this_ , he thought, ducking his head down between his forearms, turning his head to look down at the desk as intensely as he could manage.

 _Damn you, Granger_.

Snape, seemingly having lost his appetite for embarrassing Weasley, turned to the class again, as the imbecile slunk into his seat beside Hermione.

“For the next month, you will be given an assignment of attempting to brew Amortentia, one of the most powerful and potent love potions in the world. For those of us who feel that they are by no means equipped to attempt such a venture by themselves, do _not_ be so quick as to assume that you may join up with your friends and fail together.” At this comment, he turned a pointed glance at Harry and Ron, to which Harry stared defiantly back, slowly orientating his glasses on his nose once more.

“I, of course, will be helping Professor Slughorn determine whether or not your brewing skills can manage to perfect this incredibly difficult potion, especially when some of us are less than adequate at even attempting the most simple of concoctions.”

Harry was being speared by Snape’s gaze, but seemed fairly unperturbed by it. Perhaps he’d already come to that conclusion himself, Hermione sighed. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Sir?” Theodore Nott had spoken up, although his hand was nowhere to be seen. Hermione supposed that he didn’t feel the need to, considering he was a Slytherin, and thus a permanent favourite of Snape’s. Hermione sighed again, chin slumping into her hand.

“Why will you be determining our success? I thought you were only here for today?”

That was gutsy, even coming from a Slytherin. Theo Nott really _did_ like push the boundaries.

Snape was unfazed.

“Mr Nott, if you had perhaps been paying better attention, I did not say for today _only_. We will be examining your success together. Amortentia is by no means a simple nor safe potion, and Professor Slughorn has agreed for us to collaborate on this particular assignment, in the interests of testing how well you deal with far darker and more dangerous potions than you are used to brewing. Does _that_ satisfy your question?”

Theo shut up, nodding once.

Snape turned to the supposed Golden Trio, Harry still only one, raised eyebrow away from snarling, twitching as he tried not to lose his head.

“Perhaps a change of scenery is in order. You will not, in fact, choose your pairs – so Mr Goyle, feel free to return to your seat. _I_ will decide who you will be partnered with.”

Goyle begrudgingly backed down into his seat, looking at Crabbe from across the room. Neither of the two seemed at all happy that they mightn’t end up paired with each other.

“Well, well, do I dare break up the Golden Trio of Gryffindors?” Hermione grimaced – if anyone but Harry and Ron were put together, disaster would strike. A quarter of the room were Slytherins, with one Hufflepuff, the rest Gryffindors. It wasn’t even that big a class anyway.

There was Dean and Seamus, she supposed – if they got paired with them, they’d probably blow up the place, but at least it would be a friendly partnership, right?

Or maybe the Patil twins? They’d gone to the ball with them, so clearly didn’t have any problems there.

Maybe Neville? That would probably be all right too.

Hermione starting taking cursory glances around the rest of the room. Romilda Vane, Theodore Nott, Greg Goyle, Vincent Crabbe, Blaise Zabini…

 _Draco Malfoy_.

The minute her brain even realised that he was of course in the same room as her, she suddenly couldn’t resist the urge to look round at him. His head was slumped between his forearms, hands combing through his hair as he stared intently at the wooden desk, eyes never lifting once. It seemed too much of a simple thing to think that he looked more calm there than he ever had done, but his hands looked troubled, the incessant combing a sure sign of some anxious thought that he couldn’t get rid of. Hermione turned back to the front, just as Snape fixed his eyes on her.

“Ah, Miss Granger. Certainly not with Mr Potter or Mr Weasley – we’d like to see some effort made on their parts… perhaps Mr Malfoy would do you the courtesy of being your partner?”

Hermione could tell Snape did not mean it as a courtesy at all.

Hermione whipped her head round to look at him again – his head had raised, eyes looking as if he’d only just woken up, before they suddenly widened a fraction and he turned his attention to her.

Hermione decided this couldn’t be happening – it just couldn’t be.

“But sir –“

“Miss Granger, there is to be no negotiation on this.”

Apparently that seemed like a good enough answer in Snape’s eyes; Hermione was fairly sure there would never be a good reason on this earth to justify pairing her with Malfoy.

Malfoy didn’t look particularly thrilled either, but then again, it was often hard to tell when he did look thrilled, considering that he looked permanently moody these days.

Hermione tried to imagine what it might be like to have an easy life.

She couldn’t quite do it.

΅                    ΅                    ΅

The end of the class came far slower than Hermione would have liked, considering that it mostly involved Harry and Ron complaining about the fact that they weren’t paired together for a change. Wizard hero though he may be, Harry Potter could still act like a petulant child, and it was downright infuriating.

Harry had been partnered with Theodore Nott, probably a choice based purely on malice on Snape’s part, if it meant he could see Harry suffer and thus reap the benefits of yet again taking an opportunity to try and make his life a living hell. Ron had been paired up with Neville, which wasn’t so bad – rather kind on Snape’s part, surprisingly – but it had meant that many of the Gryffindor girls, often perfectly capable between each other, had been left to battle it out with the rest of the Slytherin boys, with Pansy Parkinson separated from Draco by way of Romilda Vane.

 _At least they can gossip till Kingdom come_ , Hermione thought, but it gave her little comfort.

She’d been put with Malfoy, and really, any such notion of a calm and productive assignment had gone out the window.

She didn’t deny that Malfoy had work ethic – but personality wise? They’d barely get anything done, they’d be at each other’s throats that often.

Of course, with the previous incidents exempt from that.

As they exited the dungeon bound classroom, emerging into the grimy light of the torch brackets, shadows prominent even in the late afternoon, Hermione began to wonder if maybe this was some ill-fated destiny that had been planned out for her. She was the biggest sceptic when it came to Divination – a wily discipline _indeed_ – but even now, she was beginning to consider if it was worth a look, just to try and divine if this was all some joke she’d yet to be let in on.

She very much doubted it, but even so – surely this much contact with Draco Malfoy was insane?

“This in unbelievable!” Harry was fuming beside her, his satchel slung lazily on his shoulder, half open, hair still rumpled and a furrow in his brow.

“Pairing me off with Nott! Merlin, Snape’s going to murder me at the end of this –“

“As if he doesn’t already want to? Calm down, Harry – Theodore Nott isn’t so bad that you can’t work with him-“

“He’s a Slytherin, Hermione! I can’t really think of a _worse_ alternative, never mind a better one…”

Hermione sighed, unable to sympathise entirely. At least the two of them might reach some agreement about something. Theo was intelligent – he’d want the grade more than the trouble, surely?

“Well at least you haven’t got Malfoy, eh, Harry? I mean, bloody hell, Hermione – you’ll die!”

“Thanks, Ronald, your concern is truly touching.”

“I think even Snape wanted to avoid that disaster,” Harry mused, running a hand through his hair, just as the man himself walked by, shoving past Harry none too subtly, silvery hair glowing in the dim torchlight.

“Watch where you’re going Malfoy!” Harry snapped, shrugging his satchel onto his shoulder again. Malfoy turned around, eyes squinting; he looked like a vicious animal in the dark shadows, cutting blades across his face, cheekbones wicked sharp in the light.

“As if Potter – you ought to watch where you're going, lest you bang into something, your sight’s that bad,”

Harry merely scowled back at him, and Hermione wished he’d fired back one of his witty comebacks like he usually did. She supposed you couldn’t have everything.

Draco turned to look at Hermione, a slight disgust in his eyes, evident moreso in his sneer.

“I’ll meet up with you tomorrow about the potion, Granger. Don’t be late,”

Hermione tutted once, folding her arms.

“I’m never late, Malfoy. Make sure _you_ aren’t,”

And with that she stormed past, Ron and Harry making a beeline to follow her, shoving past him with as much dignified pettiness as they could muster.

Hermione rather liked being incessantly sharp with him – maybe it was her cruel side peeking through.

Whatever the case, the dye had been cast – an entire month to spend with Draco Malfoy.

What a bloody disaster.

΅                    ΅                    ΅

 

Harry had finally decided that going to talk to McGonagall was probably the wisest course of action that afternoon, considering that he’d been dipping out of doing it for nearly 4 days now (he helpfully couldn’t remember the exact date that she’d asked for him), and so to avoid further headbutts with the strict witch, he made his way towards the Transfiguration corridor, bag swinging near his hip, gait more relaxed than usual.

Slipping in through the door, he found her at her desk, lips pursed as she scribbled on the parchment in front of her, quill waving in a cursive fashion.

“Um, Professor?”

She continued to write, not glancing up, until she’d finished the sentence. She raised her head, staring him down with a sharp eye, as alike to her cat form as he thought possible. There was something about her though – whether it be from familiarity or just simple fondness – that made her seem like an almost stern, grandmotherly figure to him; a person to scold and care for him in equal measure. Harry openly admitted that McGonagall was absolutely one of his favourite teachers – but it didn’t come without being terrified of disappointing her either.

“Ah, Potter, good to see you,”

“You wanted to see me, Professor?”

Sweeping out from behind her desk, black and velvet green robes swaying behind her like an elegant entourage, she came to stand in front of him, figure proud but thin – a testament to her many years as a teacher having to school temperamental teenagers. She looked worn yet determined by it all.

“Ah yes, Potter. As you know, the next Quidditch game is to take place in February, correct?”

Harry nodded quickly, already fully aware of this.

“I wondered, perhaps, if you were making any further additions to the team? Considering that Miss Bell will be unfortunately hospitalised for another 4 months at least, do you not suppose that finding a suitable alternative is necessary, particularly when you are the captain, Potter?”

Harry stared at her blankly, realizing that, due to his unforeseen obsession with Malfoy, finding new substitutes for the team had fallen to the wayside entirely. This year had barely even begun, and already it seemed like it was becoming far more hectic than it probably should have done.

“Oh, um… I hadn’t really thought about it, no…”

McGonagall pursed her lips even further in annoyance, sweeping past him, only to turn around again as if she had forgotten to mention something.

“Well, Potter, I suggest you start looking for suitable alternatives. For a Quidditch Captain, I may add – a strong team is nothing if you don’t do your job. I chose you for a reason, Mr Potter – don’t let me down,”

With that, she swept off into the hallway, leaving Harry more than a little befuddled. And possibly a little guilty. He knew he ought to be more focussed on the things that mattered to everybody – the Quidditch team was about more than him. It was his job to keep the team together, not let them fall apart because he was too preoccupied with other things.

Except…

Voldemort wasn’t exactly going to be lax enough to give Harry the time of day to saunter about in his daily life, while he planned how best to terrorize both the Wizarding and Muggle worlds.

Harry sighed, running an errant hand through his bird nest hair again. Being the supposed ‘Chosen One’ didn’t seem to be quite so easy after all.

“Harry?”

Startling, he looked up to find Ginny glancing in at him, a curious glint of mischief in her hazel eyes. No matter how many times he saw her, Harry was always startled by how beautiful she was, when she wasn’t even trying. The afternoon, winter sun was slowly descending below the horizon, casting the courtyard beyond the classroom in a cool, golden light, that threaded its way through her hair, casting it in bronzes and coppers that practically glowed around her head, quirked eyebrow making her look rather impish. Harry swallowed carefully. He’d already found out that Ginny was now officially dating Dean, after him and Ron had found her kissing him by accident. Although it had sparked a rather icy reception from Ron, Harry had left feeling rather empty inside, knowing that the insufferable crush he now had on her was probably a no-go area.

It hadn’t really surprised him. Her asking about Dean in the library had most likely been to determine how likely he was to give her the thumbs up on her choice. Ron was furious though – he couldn’t understand the necessity for her to go with someone at all (perhaps due to his incoherent grunts anytime Lavender was mentioned).

“Are you alright?” Ginny had taken a few steps into the classroom, looking at him with an air of concern. Harry had to remind himself to act like a normal human being.

“Oh, I – just needed to talk to McGonagall. Quidditch.”

“Oh, right.” Ginny nodded, tucking a strand of ginger hair behind her ear, which Harry tried to ignore with all of his being.

_She’s in a relationship, Harry! Stop staring at her!_

His inner voice was doing him very few favours these days.

“Are you coming?” She asked, raising an eyebrow again.

Harry blinked.

“Coming? Coming where?”

Ginny snickered, brushing her hair back casually.

“Outside, Potter. To the great outdoors,”

Ah. The snark and sarcasm had returned.

Harry grinned.

“Spectacular. I might actually be able to breathe for a change,”

΅             ΅             ΅

They walked along the grounds, the sweeping plains and towering mountains framing the scene in a wintery, elegant glow, the low sun casting rippling sheets of gold across the ground, the snow reflecting the light. The place was a study in white, and silvers, with great sweeps of icy blue in the sky, and soft oranges and deep pinks as the sun continued to dip. The sky was the canvas of a painter.

Harry, and Ginny, both bundled up in their Gryffindor scarves and robes, didn’t mind the cold at all. In fact, Harry had been right, despite his sarcasm – the winter air meant he felt like he could breathe for a change, the chill cooling his cheeks, making the air feel crisp as he inhaled. Like it was washing away all the stuffy heat and tension that had been clogging up in his mind, as the walls of the castle continued to close in. Some days he felt like he couldn’t breathe at all – that so much expectation weighed down on him, no longer just as the ‘famous Harry Potter’ that he might just collapse at any given moment.

But being with Ginny?

It almost seemed like, just for a moment, he could imagine a life where the struggles of the world went asleep, and never made to bother him again.

Being with Ginevra Weasley meant finally being free.

“Anything new?” She didn’t say it like she didn’t already know – Harry knew that she probably did. Many gave her little credit for how observant she could be, some wondering if maybe, at some point, they’d even forgotten she was there. Harry hadn’t – he’d always known that Ginny would be as fantastical, and strange, and crazy as any of her brothers had been. She was the firecracker ready to bang; the laugh waiting to burst out; the bird wrestling free of its cage. The eternal Firewhiskey, the proud Celtic Princess, forever barred by her gender but overcoming it anyway.

Harry loved her – even if it was only a beginning at the minute.

“No, nothing. Although… there is something I was wondering about,”

“Oh?”

“Malfoy,”

Ginny rolled her eyes, huffing into her scarf.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Harry – there’s nothing worth looking for there, alright? Even if he was a Death Eater, you certainly couldn’t do anything about it,”

Harry pouted, looking out ahead of him. A light snow had begun to fall.

He imitated Malfoy’s voice, only an octave higher than usual.

“You can’t fool me, Potter! I’m a Death Eater now – I’ll curse you so hard you’ll be dead!” He withdrew the accent. “Honestly, it’s not even like he tries that hard to disguise it. It’s mental,”

Ginny only laughed, shaking her head.

“You’re in love with the idiot, aren’t you, Potter?” She snickered, gasping for breath at the thought of it.

Harry whipped his head round, face aghast.

“I’m not, Ginny, alright?! _Why_ does everyone keep _saying_ that?!”

“You follow him around like a little dog – it people didn’t know any better, they’d say you were obsessed,”

“Oh sure, because following around a known Death Eater suddenly makes me gay,”

“Nothing’s wrong with it if you are,”

Harry huffed into his scarf again, pulling his satchel up onto his shoulder again.

“Well, I’m not. Although I think Seamus might be,”

Ginny laughed, throwing her head back.

“That’d hardly be news, Potter. Everyone and their aunt knows that,”

Harry bit his lip, smiling. That laugh of hers was infectious.

“Yeah, I suppose they do,”

He wondered if everybody could see how much he liked her. All those glances, and not even one glance back. And now she was with Dean…

Harry sighed, pushing the thought from his mind, as he followed her flame hair down the dirt path, both of them laughing into their scarves at the idea of Neville’s grandmother ever finding out that Seamus was actually gay.

Maybe she’d never know how much he really liked her.

Somehow, Harry thought that wouldn’t be too bad.

At least a smile could be admired from afar.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timelines in this series are very annoying, believe me :/ If there are inaccuracies pertaining to the original plot of 'The Half-Blood Prince', please excuse. I suppose fanfiction can develop its own timeline, depending on relationships and the like, but I'm trying to root it in canon as much as is feasibly possible, so at least applaud by meagre efforts :'D 
> 
> Stay tuned for more chapters to come!


	6. Potion Making and Secret Keeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my actual word. 
> 
> You're going to have to forgive me, because this story fell into such a horrific slump, and I ignored it for so long that guilt was eating me alive. Fanfiction has seriously been the last thing on my list of priorities, so anything that required actual attention to detail and long thought out processes became a tiresome thing to consider. 
> 
> But please don't worry!! This story has a complete plot mapped out, so I know where I'm going with this! It will be completed. 
> 
> Other stories will also be updated shortly - kind of as an apology for being so wilfully ignorant of all of my patient readers. You're all amazing - thank you for any and all continued support. It helps me get back to things like this. 
> 
> Hopefully this chapter will appease you. 
> 
> Sorry again!!! More to come soon - please keep tuned.

Despite having had a brief respite from the thought of his looming duties as Quidditch captain, Harry soon found himself with the unenviable position of having to figure out the Quidditch try-outs. Although it had originally seemed like a great idea – like many of the bright ones Harry had had in his illustrious career so far – it had become less pleasant a thought when he realized just how many people were fighting for a place on the school’s golden team.

Well. He said golden. He meant favourite.

It was no small victory for Gryffindor house that they happened to be the rampaging lions of victory as well as favouritism. Apparently all that unbridled stubbornness and inability to back down from any fight pitched at them had won the approval of the other students.

Whether such traits were desirable things in hormonal teenagers was rather another thing.

(He also didn’t deny he was absolutely one of those people, least not when a certain redhead was involved.)

Breakfast that Wednesday morning proved quiet, with Hermione pouring over her latest library book (about what, Harry wasn’t going to even attempt to guess), Ron flicking through the Daily Prophet with a vaguely disgruntled look on his freckled face, and Harry staring aimlessly up at the ceiling, shafts of cool, morning light piercing the Great Hall in a bleary fashion that made him want to go back to sleep. He hated mornings.

“You’ll never believe what they’ve written _now_ ,” Ron grumbled, scrunching his nose up in disbelief. Harry turned to look at him, dropping a rather pathetic looking piece of cold toast on his plate again.

“What?”

Ron raised his eyebrows, in what Harry guessed was a show of shock and annoyance. It was always hard to tell with Ron – his emotions were very interchangeable, with minutes passing as he went through every shade of every category of emotion in seconds.

“ _Apparently_ -” a sharp flick of the newspaper’s corner, clearly with the intention of bringing interest, with a needle-like tone in his voice – “‘The Ministry of Magic is unwilling to comment on the serious developments surrounding the rise of You Know Who, with claims made that the investigation pending is serving to both deter and weaken the threat of the Dark Wizard’s return”! Come on! As if the Ministry can deny it now!”

“It’s hardly a surprise, Ronald – I mean, the Ministry has never been known for its efficiency,” Hermione’s interjection sounded bored at best, like she’d been reading too long and was finding it difficult to distinguish between times or conversations anymore, so was treating them with the same brush of attitude.

“Yeah, maybe, but my _Dad_ works there. Least they could do is say it’s the Minister himself,”

Hermione shrugged, returning to her book. Harry continued to look at the ceiling.

The silence continued.

“I don’t even get it, though,” Ron said, minutes later, now flicking aimlessly past the lovelorn letters section, printed unsurprisingly beside Rita Skeeter’s latest knife stabbing article.

“Huh?” Harry muttered, but he’d felt a little out of the conversation for a while. Perhaps this Quidditch thing was making him overthink – or making him ill. Whichever.

“Well, if you think about it – Daily Prophet’s got an audience, right? People working in the Ministry have to be mad they’re being dragged into it?”

Hermione had glanced up again, curls falling behind her back as she propped her chin on her hand. For a change, Hermione looked as tired as they did – a smidge of sleep still in one eye, with her hair still looking a little worse for wear, like a tangled bird’s nest wrestled into order, but unsuccessfully.

“Maybe. But if you were to pick fights with the Daily Prophet over dragging your job into its headlines, you’d end up in them yourself,”

Ron curled his lip in response, slapping the paper down beside him as he reached for another slice of toast, in the rack running the whole length of the table. As teenage boys went, he was winning awards with his stomach. Despite his seemingly endless pit of an organ, however, Hermione had long since lost her disapproval of it- she’d realized, in a quiet moment, that Ron’s poorly-stricken background, despite its comfort, had made him into a scavenger, albeit a kind and considerate one.

A lot of things about Ron had changed, and it had made her feel very strange, especially considering her weird response to Draco at the moment.

Ron had hated him from day one, and she loved Ron. But now she felt something – not a liking, or a consideration, but a curiosity – towards Malfoy, and it was confusing her.

But anyway.

It was never the time to dwell on such things, because the guilt always ate away at her so much that she had become near sure her expression could never hide it. The thought that Draco Malfoy, of all people, was finding his place in amongst her private thoughts felt too intimate, all chalked up from a few chance encounters. That one in the library had been a fluke, she’d told herself. A mere human weakness to respond to affection and the hurt of someone else, and nothing more besides that.

She’d didn’t actually believe it, but for the sake of everyone else, she was willing to _pretend_ she did. It was easier than the truth – most things were these days.

Ron’s anger over the Prophet had diminished as she’d rummaged through her thoughts, instead content to flip the pages in silence, watching Harry’s growing fidgeting with agitation. He had a problem with sitting still – even twirling his fork absently was sometimes a necessity for him, like his hands had to stay busy for fear he’d lose grip on his thoughts. He’d always had a thoughtful look about him, and not just in a physical display of his enduring kindness. Unfailingly so. No – he looked like a thinker; an intellectual in a reckless, heated sort of way, like he had too many ideas to know what to do with. Clever, yes – he was abruptly so, displaying knowledge at the most random times, but cunning?

There was a reason why he so easily could have been a Slytherin.

It was no surprise, then, that her reading was interrupted by a faint shadow cast over her pages.

Turning to look over her shoulder, the figure of Malfoy stood with a shoulder bag draped across his frame, as casual as his slouch, still managing to look primarily snobbish despite it, the light from the early morning casting his hair into silken silver, a little untidy around the edges. His face still had that harsh, knife-like quality to it, though – a cruelty ingrained in him before birth. She wondered aimlessly how he would have fared had the Malfoy household given him away. Probably still an arrogant swot, just without the bite.

“Granger,” Again, her name used like an insult. It took very little for her to remind herself that this boy was a bully in essence as well as in practice, despite her thoughts and his vague, rare but definitive moments of vulnerability. The sheen of wealth and privilege was a scar on his face, but one he was contented to wear if it gave him the upper hand of a neatly worn façade that could disguise his true self.

He looked young in this light, yes – all pale features and bright, grey eyes, nose a little upturned – probably for effect – that sort of rich handsomeness about him making him look angelic and vile in some equal measure. He was redefining what it meant to feel crazy about a person, and want to punch them in the same vein, simultaneously, without question.

“Draco,” Gracing him with his first name had also become a habit, but from where, she had no idea. Possibly ingrained formality, to avoid fights.

Hermione loved a good verbal spar, but now was probably not the time.

“I assume you’ll be ready to start tonight?”

Not one part of that sentence sounded pleased at the concept, but the begrudging tilt of his pale eyebrow showed a certain degree of interest and concern. This was still a class, and still worth something – even he wasn’t going to jeopardize it for the sake of petty get-back between the two of them.

Hermione glared at him, shifting a little in her seat as she blinked.

“I’ve been ready since yesterday afternoon. But yes – I’ll be ready tonight,” Oh-so-formal, and she was a little thrilled and annoyed that such a conversation was causing her nerves to run on high.

Draco snorted through his nose, gripping the strap of his bag, the sounds of the bustling Great Hall dimmed a little as she watched every movement. She could see his wand tucked into his back pocket, visible from where his robes were unintentionally tucked behind it. Delicate and fine, founded in dark, smooth wood, long enough to appear elegant, but refined enough to dictate heritage and status.

She also knew it was Unicorn Hair core – an even rarer, more beautiful thing than she would have expected from him. Delicate, and painfully so. Easily broken, and pure despite how it was hunted.

She frowned a little.

Such a apt combination with him.

“Well, 8 o’clock then, Granger. Don’t be late,”

“I told you – I never am,” She snarled in kind.

He leant forward a little, a lock of white golden hair slipping out of place, curling onto his forehead. He looked positively unearthly in this light. Cruel smirk and angelic face, carved from marble and meant for a statue outside a church, where more rustic pleasures were found inside. That’s what he was – a church sullied, but not through choice.

“Whatever, Granger. I’ll see you tonight,”

The thought would have been romantic, had he not sounded disgusted by the mere thought. His turn on his heel seemed a little ridiculous, but he swept off down the hall, saunter far too evidently practiced for it to seem unintentional.

Harry and Ron had both paused, watching him go – Ron with the Prophet’s page corner between his fingers, Harry with a lingering triangle of toast between his teeth, melted butter dripping onto his plate. Both seemed confused.

“I’m still surprised he even can muster up the will to talk to you,” Harry muttered, absently crunching on his toast again. It looked limp as it went cold.

Hermione merely snorted at the suggestion. She knew all too well that Malfoy had all the will in the world to talk to her, if only because he knew exactly how to rile her up. She kept reminding herself that this was the boy entirely at ease with dragging her through the mud, spouting derogatory terms at her that he felt best suited her position in wizarding society.

_Mudblood._

As if he was one to talk.

 

΅             ΅             ΅

Despite his love of Quidditch, standing out on the wet, damp-grassed pitch that Wednesday afternoon had served to put Harry in a worse mood than he had been this morning.

He wasn’t just tired anymore – he was tired and _cold_.

And miserable. And agitated. And frankly _fed up_ –

Harry took one, long breath, closing his eyes temporarily, revelling in the chilled air gracing his lungs. The snow was visible around Hogwarts still, the Quidditch pitch cleaned of its contents so that practice could continue. But the grass had turned muddy from the slush of the ice, and damp air making his skin bubble with goose bumps, cheeks feeling hot to touch and lips chapped from the cold, as well as licking them almost obsessively as he tried to formulate his plan of attack. Quidditch captain meant many things in terms of the title, but one was trying to keep his temper as rookie would-be recruits tried to impress him beyond normal measures, the already chosen team standing to the wayside with frankly annoyed looks on their faces as they watched the noise escalate.

He didn’t have time for posers. Even though he could admit to being one some of the time. Everyone was at _some_ point.

But these ones were practically making _careers_ out of it.

“We could just pack it in and tell them to leave,”

Ginny stood beside him as they watched the kerfuffle in front of them, a fight over brooms currently throwing younger students to the outside of the contest, looking severely offended.  

Harry raised a tired and disinterested eyebrow, hair blowing a little wildly in the wind. He was looking more windswept than usual, green eyes bright but sparked with anger, brow furrowed in the most deadpan glare he’d worn all month, black hair a wolf’s pelt on his head, combed into a mess rather than out of it by the weather.

Ginny thought he looked more interesting when he was less put together.

(She meant, of course, that it made him look like a wilder, more dangerous version of himself, which of course was at least ten times more attractive. But that was of course beside the point).

Harry grunted.

“Yeah we could, but I’ve suffered McGonagall’s wrath enough this term,”

Ginny barked out a melodic laugh, laced with vicious hilarity at his misfortune.

“You wish, Potter. She’s only just getting started,”

Harry whipped a glare her way, glasses making his eyes look sharper as the cool, grey sky set off his features and Gryffindor kit in startling clarity. Something about dull weather made him look fierce and primal and very, very powerful.

“Thanks for the vote of support, Weasley,”

Ginny tilted her head, ginger plait whipping over her shoulder as the fly-away hairs around her face got caught in her eyelashes, freckles not at all dimmed by the lack of bright sun. She looked positively radiant, and violently so.

Merlin, he was obsessed with her.

Choking back a retort that he knew would only serve to make her laugh further, he turned to the crowd again, still snatching at brooms and yelling incomprehensible insults that were still managing to offend the intended party.

Harry glared.

“Guys -”

The fighting continued, too interested in their own disagreements to even look in his direction. The scowl on Ginny’s face was evident enough, grinding her teeth at the definitive lack of respect.

Harry brushed his hair out of his face, trying to remain calm.

“Guys, come on – quiet, please -”

Ginny’s temper snapped.

“SHUT IT, YOU LOT!”

The fighting stopped, Ron standing on the side with a slightly begrudged but sick look on his face. Despite his size – tall, and broad enough in the shoulder – Harry had the distinct feeling that Ron, no matter how fiery his temper could be, and despite how he’d already been chosen for the team, was not great under the pressure that would inevitably ride on his shoulders as he hovered in front of the hoops, trying to embody the role as best as he could. It didn’t help, of course, that a small crowd had gathered on the stands – a bigger, more prominent threat to his mental state than anything. Quidditch practice always attracted viewers.

Harry loosed a breath.

“Alright, so this morning – I’m putting you all through a few drills. Just to assess your strengths, your weaknesses, that sort of thing. Chaser isn’t an easy position to fill – it’ll be difficult, but just – try your best. The rest of the team will help assess who's best for the job. Any others who make a good enough cut might be held as reserves. Is that understood?”

He hated sounding like a teacher – especially when people started scowling at him like he was one.

They nodded once in approval – although Ron still looked a little agitated, his red hair waving limply in the breeze.

Harry groaned to himself, turning round in one sweep as he headed to where his broom was left, Ginny walking with him as she cast a glance back at the hopefuls.

“Good luck with this lot,” she muttered, biting her lip with experimental doubt, like she couldn’t decide whether to be sceptical or just pretend to wait for the best.

Harry cast a glance at her – watching her plait swing back and forth like a pendulum as she walked, hazel eyes bright despite the early morning.

“I think I’m going to need it,” he muttered back, running a nervous hand through his hair, looking back at the team as he kicked off the ground, soaring up into the air with effortless ease, surveying the pitch. The muck and mud was making it difficult to feel upbeat – like a personal reminder that the indoors was a better alternative at this point. The air slapped his cheeks again, keeping him awake. Ginny soared up to meet him, one hand gripping the broom, the other tucking stray hairs behind her ear, licking her lips in anticipation.

She flew in closer to him, a quirky smile on her lips as she pointed carelessly to the team as they each made their way to the skies, some wobbly, others too confident for Harry to even try stomaching them for much longer.

“Dean’s trying out for Chaser now,” she hissed into his ear, casting a cursory glance at the sky, looking for any sign of encroaching rain.

“Loads are,” he muttered, leaning forward on his broom, forearms draped over the handle, feet firmly planted back in the foot grips, the metal digging into the heels of his boots.

“This is either going to be an absolute disaster or a minor miracle,” he continued, watching with a casual eye as the potential recruits tried to get to grips with the balance, circling each other as conversation was made, waiting patiently for the first drill.

“I mean, the team’s not going to last if people keep dropping like flies.” Ginny’s response reminded him of Katie – he’d already lost a fabulous Chaser to Malfoy’s conniving ways, and having to train the team whilst looking for new recruits for said Chaser was becoming more a headache than he’d anticipated. It wasn’t enough to let the team just continue on with their normal drills while he frantically assessed a haphazard group of students eager for a second shot of victory. The tryouts had been in October, and the team was fine. Brilliant, even. But his own distraction, and the gruelling day-to-day of running a team was taking its toll; he could feel it in his muscles, in his sore eyes, rubbed raw from this morning.

Quidditch meant more than most to him, but today it was just making him angry.

Ginny seemed to sense his discomfort, wiping at his face with an painful sigh, hair more mussed as he continued to make lazy but somewhat irritable runs through it with his fingers. Even his kit – usually one to show off his lean physique, and show a potential strength and vivacity to him, as Captain of the team, seemed brash on him today, in spite of his previous look of leadership, well suited to the colours. He looked drained.

A warm hand fell upon his forearm, Ginny’s bright eyes looking to him as he swivelled to gaze back at her.

“Harry, it’ll be fine. It’s just one try-out – for one position. Seriously. Just get today over with. You can skive off the rest of the day if you want.”

“Or just go back to bed,” he murmured, but that whisper of his cocky, confident smile was back, sitting up a little straighter on his broom.

“Yeah, or that,” she laughed, nudging him with her elbow.

She tried to forget how she had felt the heat of his skin under her gloved fingertips, but it didn’t work.

Watching him swoop around the pitch, like a hawk on the wind, seemed mesmerising in all degrees, black hair swept back from his face as he put each try-out through their paces, snapping into the position of moody but disciplined and fair team captain – a role that suited him, because leading people was generally his thing.

Even as the morning session had come to a close – with Dean nabbing the hotspot as Chaser in Katie’s place – Ginny had felt like Harry’s mood hadn’t lifted. Whatever was bugging him was still on his mind, and despite his retorts to the contrary, she knew better. She always did where Harry was concerned.

Lunch had eventually swung round, and one look across at him, the Great Hall bathed in cool, midmorning winter light, a small chatter of students surrounding them, pages rustling and forks clinking against plates, she’d given up trying to guess.

“Alright. Out with it. What’s wrong?”

Harry’s head had lifted from the book in front of him – a rare sight at the best of times. His current plate of bacon and eggs remained untouched, but instead pushed around to the edges of the plate with very little intention made of eating them.

“Huh?”

“Don’t act stupid, Potter – what’s wrong? You’ve been in a mood all morning.”

Harry shrugged, brushing back his hair again. At this rate, it was going to be dirty by that evening.

Ginny slapped the table in front of him with the Prophet, rolled up into a tunnel, making him jump in his seat, turning to her with an equally wounded and irritated look on his face.

“Merlin, Ginny, what d’you do that for?!”

“Because your head’s in the dump and you’re refusing to tell me what’s wrong,”

That blazing look she so often wore was back, determined enough to wrangle him out of his seat if he didn’t start giving answers. There was that part of Ginny that abhorred all types of moping – it just wasn’t her way with things. A little insensitive, maybe, but he reminded himself that this was the girl who’d been possessed by Voldemort. What she’d seen, he didn’t know, but it had made her tough. Unyielding. Ready to fight and complain and take action when any situation required it.

The first wand to raise when threats were thrown.

He sighed once, in a quick, clarified sort of way – just as he looked straight at her, and slapped his book shut, lying his chin on its cover as he blinked up at her, green eyes vibrant but a little weary.

“I’m worried -”

“About?”

Harry looked at her, his glare enough to let her determine what.

“Malfoy?”

He nodded once, lifting his head as his chin slumped into his palm, unclear how best to express himself. For all his great speeches about equality and the just thing to do, his own feelings always proved both intense and hard to verbalize. He was a living complication, and not just in the ordinary, human way either. He was complicating in himself – always so emotional, yet unable to explain why; always quick to defend, but not always entirely sure how to go about it.

He was kind and fierce and passionate and wily and brave and wild and strong –

And also a hell of a pessimist.

Ginny sighed, getting up from her seat as she pushed her plate across the table, sliding her wand into the back of her bun, stray hairs falling all around her face. Her freckles seemed to glitter in the sunlight, the snow still visibly falling outside the window, the air cool but warm enough not to warrant wearing robes.

She thumped down into the seat beside him, raising an eyebrow in his direction as he looked back at her, watching how her fingers moved to take a sip from her goblet, how she kept uselessly tucking her hair behind her ear, crossing her legs underneath the table as she pulled her jumper cuffs over the backs of her hands.

She leant in a little, swiping a hand towards the body of the students in the hall, mindless chatter dancing in and around with the Christmas lights, the tree standing proud in the centre of the hall, and all too caught up with their personal, private conversations to look at him.

“Not one person in here gives a baldy what we’re talking about right now. And you need to talk, Harry. Whether your stubborn head – and stubborn heart – believes it or not.”

Her pointed glance was enough to make him smirk a little.

“Have you eaten?”

He bit his lip.

“Have you even slept?”

He said nothing.

Ginny sighed, like she was his long suffering mother – and sounding like her own, too – as she stabbed his long forgotten fork into the scrambled egg and shoved it into his hand, reaching for the goblet on his right, her arm stretching across his chest as she grabbed for it. Her flowery scent went with her, pervading his senses as she sat back and filled up his glass, setting it beside him.

“Eat,” she ordered, and it was not to be mistaken for a request.

He begrudgingly ate the forkful of egg, looking at her guiltily.

“I wasn’t hungry,” he muttered around his mouthful, and Ginny’s eyes softened a little, tucking that same stray hair behind her ear again, casually glancing at the scar lacing across his forehead. Far from the tiny little scratch one would think of for a scar, it was a jagged line that looked like his head had been split open and stitched back together, but wrong. Like actual lightning.

It gave his eyes a fierce look to them, particularly when he was angry. Those were the times were fire danced in those green irises, and Harry Potter took no prisoners.

Today, it just made him look broken.

“Maybe not, but your body won’t thank you for it.”

He merely shrugged again, eating more of the egg. Ginny watched on it silent observation.

When he had finished, she sat up straighter, allowing him to scan her face as she smiled at him, bright and endearing and most definitely pretty. Intelligently so.

“So. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Harry sighed again, leaning back to look at the ceiling, candles floating effortlessly above his head, as he gripped the bench between his legs, tilting his head back further, glasses slipping off his nose a little.

“I’m just stressed. Over lots of stuff,”

“Stuff?”

“Malfoy. Exams. Voldemort.”

He paused.

“McGonagall,” He looked sideways at her, a cheeky grin on his face that made him look young and carefree; handsome, too. Ginny briefly wondered whether he knew it – how striking he was. The messy hair, the bright eyes, the lopsided smile, the well-cut features. He looked…

Well – stunning. He just did.

His scars – running on the back of his hand and across his forehead – only served to liven him up. It was that living complication again – marked for life and yet having left his own on many others - many emotional, many others physical.

Ginny laughed, leaning back against the table as she watched him, tilting his head back towards her.

“I dunno, Gin, I’m just – I just need time to get things sorted in my head.”

“Maybe ignoring Malfoy would be a good start to that plan,”

His smile was breathless, and just a little acceptant.

“Maybe,”

The silence seemed pregnant – but with a lot more than just the current conversation. Every comment towards each other – every interaction, every breath, touch, look, inner joke – it all felt like it was leading to something, but not sure what road it ought to be taking. Ginny wished it would hurry up.

She quickly reminded herself she was currently with Dean – someone who had proved attractive to her also.

But then she looked at the boy in front of her again – and she wondered why on earth she’d bothered to look anywhere else in the first place.

Something inside her cracked a little, watching his lopsided grin, realizing she’d restored some kind of brightness to him that afternoon, from whatever slump he’d been in. They were good for each other - that much was obvious - and yet... 

They kept _missing_ each other. Like walking down a different street, and missing your soulmate. Missing them by _fractions_ , but missing them all the same. 

His smile faded a little as he watched her, the joy somehow a little jilted as she smoothed her hand over the cracks in the table’s wood, watching how her nails caught in the fissures.

“Gin?”

Her smile was plastered on, and badly so.

“Nothing! Nothing. Just – if you ever need to talk, I’m here,” she smiled again, wan on her features, and slid from her seat, a passing hand on his arm radiating warmth. As it slipped from him, he caught her fingers as she left, making her turn a little in surprise.

“I’m here, too,” he said, for a moment the noise and chatter of the hall disappearing from his senses as he focused on her hair, on her eyes, on the feel of her slender but calloused fingers in his own, the dark freckles coating her milk-bottle skin a stark contrast to his own dark tone, the scar across his hand a little baiting when he considered the context of the situation.

_I must not tell lies._

If anyone deserved to know how he felt, Ginny was one of them. If not _the_ one.

She looked at him, a hard, determined and shattered sort of gaze, like she knew he meant it, but felt he shouldn’t be saying it. He knew she was with Dean – and yet he seemed unimportant in that moment. Like a faraway person in a different world where niceties were never entertained. Where he could just have this moment with her without it ever being looked on with a certain sense of guilt. Like he could never look back on this and know he shouldn’t have indulged himself, basking in her warmth.

Not when she was with someone else. Someone that wasn’t him.

“I know,” she muttered, the words barely perceptible in the room, as her fingers slid from her hand and she walked down the hall, plate forgotten.

He knew she had her own worries too.

Maybe they needed to start looking at each other straight.

Maybe they just needed to be honest for a change.

 

Maybe they _all_ did. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you for reading! I've been in a fantasy mood, and this felt like a good way to work that out. 
> 
> This story, this story - now that I definitely know what's happening with it, it makes me feel super duper excited to write it out for you guys! I can't wait to see how you all feel about it. 
> 
> For all interested, I'll probably update Miss Thursday next, what with Endeavour repeats all the time, so if that's on your list, keep an eye out too. 
> 
> Also!! My Spotify playlists for this story have come together nicely, and have been split between the three main ships in this, so feel free to check them out: 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/ingenioussprite/playlist/65kHnLZnpIVeAVRrWWJ5h2
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/ingenioussprite/playlist/12IoHCh0sIwE4MkJLnkfyS
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/ingenioussprite/playlist/1pRp05UdBuqmspvMYm0cz3
> 
> Any mistakes, let me know! Any typos, I'll notice them eventually when I do another million rereads! 
> 
> Also, special shout-out to burdge, for giving me a love for the idea of Harry's scar being a bit more than a squiggle: http://burdge.tumblr.com/post/94665202994/ok-but-hear-me-out-what-about-a-lightning-bolt
> 
> More to come soon. Eyes peeled, folks.


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